


More than Kin and Less than Kind

by ProtoNeoRomantic



Series: The Three Queens of Arthur Pendragon [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is not blind, Arthur tollerates good magic, Bisexual Erasure, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Concerned Gwen, Developing Relationship, Episode: s01e06 A Remedy to Cure All Ills, F/M, Gaius gives Arthur advice, Gaius gives Merlin advice, Gay/Bi Relationships, Gen, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Half-Sibling Incest, Hidden Depths, Hidden Talents, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Mysterious illness, Oblivious Merlin, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Classism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Petulant Merlin, Prophetic Dreams, Protective Arthur, Regret, Sense Memory, Series Rewrite, Short Chapters, Slow To Update, Straight/Bi Relationships, Uther's complex relationship to magic, What Doesn't Kill You Can Still Seriously Mess You Up, hidden motives, more canon than canon, strong silent types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 24,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4974496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Morgana is struck by a life threatening illness to which a mysterious stranger seems to hold the cure, those closest to her are left struggling to understand and accept themselves, their relationships, and their choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Smell of Lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Morgana

The morning was fresh and Morgana felt rested. Relieved, now that the business with the Griffin was over and the kingdom no longer in danger. Until a fragrance disturbed her. It was not unpleasant, but at first difficult to place. Until Gwen swept cheerfully into the room and announced, “Look what's just arrived for you.” Her arms were full of them. Lilies. Huge white ones. Of a type Morgana had only had brought to her chamber once before. Seven years ago.

They didn't grow in Camelot proper. The closest place was perhaps ten miles distant. Arthur had gone to some trouble. Was this his idea of an apology? If so, it was a thoughtless one. Or else a very cruel joke.

Knowing Arthur, the former seemed more likely than the latter, despite his downright nastiness the other night and his avoidance of her company since. The prince was probably embarrassed by his drunken outburst, as well he should be. And shamed by his failure, once again, to meet his obligations to her as honor required. Which was all the more reason he should have known better than to send her lilies, especially _those_ lilies, on today of all days.

But Morgana could not think on that just now. Gwen had noticed her frown and was frowning in return, trying to coax her back into a smile, or else make some sense of her sudden unsmilingness. Morgana deftly obliged her the former and denied her the latter, throwing in some haughty banter at Arthur's expense, teasing Gwen just a little about wanting her own tall dark stranger, knowing her servant would understand that to be a reference to Lancelot, who had been so taken with Gwen.

Half a second too late, Morgana wondered if she had been wrong to tease her so. Perhaps Gwen was secretly, deeply pining for the loss of the peasant knight. Perhaps Morgana's casual reference had been callous. Perhaps it tormented her. But if Gwen felt any such thing, Morgana was relieved to note, she certainly didn't show it.

Gwen went blithely about her business, humming cheerfully. Morgana finished sorting through her jewelry and cast about for something purposeful to do. She sat down to her needlepoint but could not concentrate. “Gwen,” she said at last. “It's such a fine day, there's nothing here that can't wait. Why don't you go out and enjoy the sunshine?”

Gwen protested a bit. Not as one who truly wished to stay, but as one who felt obligated to protest. It was not difficult to prevail upon her to take her ease. All it took were smiling assurances that Morgana was quite content and simply needed no assistance just now. Off Gwen went, insisting she'd stop by the kitchen's to make sure meals were sent up and be back in the evening to help her mistress prepare for bed.

The minute Gwen closed the door behind her, Morgana's smile shattered and her face melted into a mess of bitter tears. For an hour or more, she lay on her bed, curled on her side, tormented by memories. Memories of pain and loss. Of wide blue eyes and an infant's shrill crying. Of the rank stench of blood and sweat less than half masked by the smell of lilies.


	2. In His Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Gaius

“Is this a joke?” Merlin demanded, shoving the gilded scroll Gaius had handed him back at the old physician, who folded his hands and refused to take it from him.

“It's a way out,” Gaius countered firmly, warningly. “A reprieve from certain death.” The look on the boy Mage's face was both sullen and puzzled. “Uther knows,” Gaius spelled out at last, sighing in frustration. “This is your warning to stay away from Arthur and your payment for keeping whatever has past between you to yourself.”

“But, I swear to you,” Merlin insisted fiercely, “Nothing—”

“I don't want to hear it!” Gaius cut him off impatiently. “If you value your life, you will accept the King's mercy and generosity and be gracious about it! And if you don't value your life, it should be enough that your mother and I do!”

For a moment, Merlin seemed taken aback, but he rallied quickly. Pigheaded as he was, reason had little effect on his opinions. “But what about my destiny at Arthur's side?" he insisted.  "What about that, huh!?!”

“Your 'destiny' whatever it is, Merlin, can be as well or better fulfilled by a court physician than any mere serving boy. In that capacity, I assure you, you will find yourself at Arthur's side in both war and peace long after Uther and I are dust and bone. Not to mention the fact that you will finally have the leisure to study both science and magic. You ought to be thanking the gods, Merlin! And Uther. And _Arthur_ , for that matter. For this is no doubt his doing.”

“Oh yeah,” Merlin mocked, very nearly sneered. “My marvelous benefactor the Great Prince Arthur is firing me because he thinks I'm a pervert, making eyes at him behind his back while I wait to help him undress! I'll be sure to thank him for that(!)”

Gaius sighed again and shook his head, his anger melting into affection. “Please,” he pleaded gently, “for my sake. For now at least. Leave it alone and do as the king says.  When _Arthur_ is King, he may employ you and your... unique talents in whatever capacity he desires. And somehow, I don't think he will object too much then if you want to help him undress.”

Finally that managed to stop Merlin's tongue, if only for a moment. He seemed so honestly shocked that Gaius could have laughed if the situation were not so deadly serious. “Your not saying...” Merlin managed at last, shaking his head. “No. No way!” he insisted, suddenly incredulous again. “Arthur isn't... You're not saying he's... like me? Like _us_?”

Gaius nodded gravely. “Yes," he confirmed.  "That is exactly what I'm saying. And you of all people should know how difficult and how important it is to him, especially in his position, to remove from himself any such temptation and be grateful that he has found a way to do so without banishing you from Camelot altogether or even from the Royal Household.”

“No!” Merlin insisted with fierce, unaccountable certainty and stubborn passion, “No, you're wrong! Arthur values me for my loyalty and, and my... I don't know if 'friendship' is the word, but, but certainly not... well not for _that_!”

Now it was Gaius's turn to be taken aback. “Merlin!” he declared wonderingly, “What on Earth is the matter with you? Why should you be angry with me for stating the obvious fact of the matter and giving you the benefit of my experience?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Merlin retorted sullenly. “Just because you've pointed out that no one could possibly value me for my intelligence or my personality or my abilities as a servant, just because you think the only possible reason for Arthur to want me around or to feel anything for me at all is that he secretly wants me for his tawdry little plaything, why should I be insulted by that(?)”

At that, Gaius shook his head again, smiling sadly. Though he had his father's features and his mother's active intelligence, Merlin could be, at times, confoundingly like his grandfather. Or, for that matter, his grandfather's younger brother. “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,” he chided gently, patiently. “I am saying nothing like that. I am saying that Arthur is in love with you; heart, mind, body, and soul. So much so that he can neither risk being too near you nor stand to have you too far away. Only you, Merlin, could conjure up a way to feel insulted by that.”


	3. Well Enough Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Merlin

“Just let it go, Merlin,” Merlin muttered under his breath as he slogged sullenly through the early morning fog. “Leave well enough alone, Merlin. Do as he says, Merlin. Go fetch my herbs, Merlin.”

“Well, you're in a foul mood as usual.” His voice was brusk, cheerfully abrasive. The Prince stood before him, or rather, lounged a bit to the side of before him, leaning against an ancient tree with the casual grace and even more casual arrogance of a cat. Flecks of gold glinted upon his flaxen mane, even in that dim light. His eyes seemed a bit nervous for all that, darting around as if in fear of being observed.

Merlin's first impulse was to reassure him, to find what he needed comforting about and proceed to comfort. He resisted. “Have I got something to be cheerful about?” he asked instead. Though he ably mocked a tone of cheerful indifference, Arthur was not fooled and not meant to be. They both knew his words to be a challenge. The pretense that they were not was paper thin.

“Some people might be,” Arthur countered, “having the path to fame, honor, and riches so suddenly unrolled before them.”

“Do you expect me to thank you?” Merlin demanded, giving up pretense entirely. “For what, for sacking me? For telling your father the gods know what slander to get him to pour out fame, honor, and riches just to keep you safely away from me?”

Arthur blinked, honestly taken aback. He rallied quickly, beginning to drawl out the usual pompous words of condescension to his 'mere servant'. But this time Merlin was having none of it.

“Is it true?” he demanded, his blood grown hot with indignation, raising the stakes of the challenge. Somewhere in the depths of his being Merlin felt a distant, muted sense of terror and regret. The answer to his question could be nothing good, and yet suddenly, fiercely, he wanted it, wanted the admission of truth, wanted it as desperately as a moth wants a candle flame. And like a moth, the young adept moved closer to the object of his desire.

Something happened to Arthur's face. His sneer melted away and his expression became suddenly serious, almost brooding. He reached out for Merlin, now less than an arms length away. He caressed the boy's cheek and suddenly they were in one another's arms, sharing hungry, openmouthed kisses.

Without knowing how they had traded places, Merlin felt the rough bark of the tree scraping against his back as he was pinned triumphantly against it by the heat and mass and closeness of Arthur's body. The Prince's hands were working their way under his tunic, caressing his chest and making every other inch of his skin plead for the same attention.

Hoping to inspire reciprocity, Merlin reached for the front of Arthurs trousers. Pushing under the belted tunic in just the right spot, he unknotted the familiar laces with a single tug and was soon wriggling his fingers inside. He more than half expected Arthur to stop him, maybe even half wanted him to. But no such. Instead, Arthur began to fumble at Merlins belt, urgently, almost angrily, seeming to have no notion of it's mechanics.

Despite all that, Merlin's sightly more practiced hands easily found what they were looking for. Cupping Arthur's balls snuggly in his right hand, Merlin gently began to squeeze and stroke the prince's cock with his left. “Oh Gods!” Arthur moaned, giving up on the belt to paw at Merlin's crotch through the coarse material of his pants instead, a half measure which made his flesh long for the prince's touch all the more.

“Take exactly one step back,” Merlin instructed breathlessly. For once, Arthur heeded the voice of differing experience without affront or argument. One step was exactly right. Still close enough that Merlin was able to keep one hand on Arthur's cock while he used the other to unbuckle his own belt and push his pants down around his knees without scraping his ass against the rough bark of the tree.

As Arthur's fingers closed around Merlin's suddenly, joyfully erect penis, the young Pendragon let out a slow, rattling sigh as though all of the tension of his twenty years of living was being released in that his first ever moment of peace and certainty. Something like a realization fluttered through Merlin's mind. Something to do with what it must be like to be the only child of an only parent who was not the centered, simple, loving mother Hunith had been, but the great and frightful King Uther Pendragon.

But there was no time now for grasping at realizations. It flitted nimbly through the tendrils of his thoughts and floated away, along with thoughts like, 'what makes a moth not a flutter-by?' and 'Uther will probably kill me before I'm twenty regardless.' Events were proceeding apace and the here and now had to be attended to.

Freed of his belt, Merlin's trousers didn't stop at his knees but fell around his ankles. Only his ass was covered by the tail of his tunic, leaving his legs bare and exposed to the chilly morning air. As much as that chill made him long for the warmth and safety of Will's grandmother's hayloft, he knew that he'd have stood naked in the icy North Sea up to his bottom lip to touch and be touched by Prince Arthur Pendragon the way they were touching right now.

And then, just as suddenly as all this had begun, Arthur's hand was withdrawn. For a split second, Merlin was frozen, not even able to breathe. He wanted to beg, or protest, or something. This could not be over yet. Especially considering that it could never happen again and that Merlin could easily be killed for what had happened already.

But Merlin's protests were unnecessary. Arthur was only taking off his jacket. Taking it off and spreading it on the ground for someone to kneel upon. Merlin's heart started again with a thunderous, uneven hammering. The very thought of taking Arthur into his mouth was, was... premature! Oh Blessed Goddess!

Kneeling on the jacket, Arthur took Merlin firmly by the hips and jerked him forward until there was not an inch between the prince's lips and his former servant's cock. Keeping his grip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, Arthur bobbed his head down and to the side to catch Merlin's shaft between his lips then worked his way around to the head, taking it in at one snap and two or three inches besides.

Murmuring a prayer of thanks, catching himself in time to keep the deity in question unidentified, Merlin sagged at the knees and had to grab hold of Arthurs shoulders for support. The prince was working his cock like a demon. Bobbing up and down to slide his lips again and again and again over the length of the shaft even as he moved his inexpert but enthusiastic tongue against its flared head.

Merlin's eyes rolled back in his head as he struggled not to thrust into the prince's mouth, not to choke him with that hard, stiff wand of flesh. Blessed and befuddled be all the bewildering gods of all the religions of Albion! How was it possible that the mightiest warrior and the higest prince in all the land had lain in wait for him in these damp morning woods only to sink to his knees and suck his grateful cock? If it had been the other way round, that at least would admit of belief, but, but...

But it didn't matter. The moment had arrived. Release. Bliss. Something between intensity of pleasure and just pure intensity. Merlin held tight to Arthur's shoulders for fear of loosing his feet. Arthur dug his fingers into Merlin's bony hips and held even tighter. Merlin's cock was spasming now, shrinking as it spurted it's life-giving juices down the greedy throat of a man to whom they should have been worse than useless. Yet the future king swallowed every drop as hungrily as if he were gorging on the nectar of the gods.

 


	4. Without a Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Arthur

“Are you alright?” It was a woman's voice. Her strained, fretting tone suggested that she might not be asking for the first time. With a deep sigh of reluctance, Prince Arthur turned away from the armor he'd been inspecting and reinspecting for far too long. It was Morgana's servant, Gwen, which made sense. Very few women ever ventured into the armory, especially when no one was being armed for anything. But the blacksmith’s daughter was one of the few that might.

“Oh, it's you,” rolled off of Arthur's distracted tongue before he could give a thought to how it might sound. Gwen gave him a funny look. Maybe even the slightest bit disapproving, her lips pressed tight together. Arthur sighed again tiredly, almost petulantly. He'd been getting a lot of that lately. Quiet disapproval. Ever since the whole Lancelot debacle. And everything else that had happened at the same time. About Morgana. It was getting tiresome.

“I was just... I saw you come in here, and you seemed... I don't know...” Gwen stammered, the epitome of embarrassment, as if she'd caught him at something, or been caught at something herself.

“I'm fine,” Arthur snapped at the poor servant, slamming a heavy sword down in its holder for emphasis, only half regretted the look of shock that crossed the young woman's face as she blurted her apologies and hurried away.

What was she doing out wandering around this time of the morning anyway? She ought to have been helping Morgana adorn herself. She'd be trying on her new Spring plumage by now, after all.

It was then that the realization struck Arthur with full force. There was not so late a frost today. Only a chilly fog. More early spring and less late winter. But this was the day, just the same. Seven years. Of course Gwen was at a lose end. Morgna would want to be alone. To mourn.

He ought to do something, Arthur thought. He thought so every year, but what was there to do? He'd tried, that day to comfort her. He'd gone himself to the market and bought the most expensive flowers he could find. A child's idea of romance. And she'd been sick at the sight of them. What are flowers in the face of a dead infant? So slight a gesture as to be almost an insult. No, the only thing he could do for Morgana today was to leave her alone.

Besides, the Prince reminded himself, he didn't lack for present difficulties to worry about. Poor Merlin being chief among them. Today had to be the end of that. That was all there was to it. Otherwise, sooner or later, he was bound to get the poor boy killed. And after all, he reasoned with himself, lust once acted upon was satisfied and ought to be easy enough to put behind him.

Except that the very thought of putting Merlin behind him ended Arthur up in entirely the wrong corner of his mind. Dear Gods! It was like a type of madness! An affliction of the mind for which there was no cure.

Unless...

Arthur dashed a dozen step in the direction of the royal physicians chambers before the hard slap of reality brought him up short. Gaius was not the only inhabitant of those chambers. Under the circumstances, his going there was likely to be misconstrued; by Merlin, by Gaius, and worst of all by his father. He would have to summon the physician to him if he was to seek his advice. But he could hardly state his true reason for doing so.

More than half relieved to have so good an excuse, feeling miserable enough for any number of ailments, the prince took to his bed. After a decent interval, declaring that he was feeling worse by the hour, he sent a servant to fetch Gaius at once.

But the advice he got was less than comforting. “There is noting _to_ be done,” the old man explained patiently. “Believe me,” he said with an apologetic smile, and far too lightly for the Prince's liking, “If there were I'd have cured myself long ago.”

“But what's the cause of the problem?” Arthur insisted, “Surely you must know that. Is it because I grew up without a mother or... because of what happened with Morgana, some... psychic wound or scar of some kind? Some kind of divine retribution?”

“No,” Gaius answered firmly, becoming much more serious. “I don't believe it is. It's something a man is simply born with, as another might be born blind or left handed or with a clubbed foot. I'm afraid, My Lord, it is simply your lot in life, as it is mine.”

It was the answer, that within reason, he should have expected. Arthur understood that. And yet, it was so frustrating, so maddening that the Prince felt he could have snapped the bedposts in half with his bare hands. Instead he bowed his head and took a couple of deep, calming breaths. “Will there be anything else, My Lord?” Gaius asked at length.

Arthur was so desperate for relief that he almost dared to ask forbidden questions. Almost, but not quite. I wouldn't have mattered anyway if the answer was yes, it would only torment him more. As his father had said “A man must live in his own times and no other.” And in Camelot, during the reign of King Uther Pendragon, no cure but magic was the same as no cure at all.


	5. Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV:Gwen

Gwen tried her very best to spend the whole day relaxing. It was rare enough she had the chance. A couple of hour of strolling in the sunshine and lounging in the shade were easy enough to enjoy. But by mid morning she felt the guilt of idleness beginning to creep in to her mind and disturb her tranquility.

After all, it wasn't as though there was truly nothing that needed doing about Morgana's chambers, or in her own home for that matter, never mind her father's smithy. It certainly wasn't as though her brother was any help to him in his work. It hardly seemed right to spend the _whole_ day resting when she wasn't even ill, despite how refreshing it actually felt.

Maybe that was why Gwen started for home when she did, a vague plan of doing some long put off Spring cleaning taking rough shape in the mind. And it was probably why she took the time to notice how very disheartened and confused Arthur looked as he made for the armory. It was certainly the only reason she felt compelled to follow the prince and try to comfort him.

Guilt. The uneasy awareness that she was not earning her keep today, not rendering useful service. What other reason could she possibly have had to worry over a young man so uniquely equipped to care for himself? A lion after all, was no less a lion with a thorn in his paw. And any mouse who felt the need to help him with it had better remember not to expect a reward.

Knowing all that, keeping it firmly in mind; Gwen quietly entered the armory, and began looking about for the future king. She found him, sitting alone, fiddling idly with some of the weaponry. His furrowed brow loomed above a deep frown, brooding and pensive.

Gwen stood watching a moment, waiting to be acknowledged. The prince did not look up. She began to worry. Evidently whatever he was thinking of concerned him very deeply. Given the objects of his contemplation, Gwen found herself wishing for some reassurance that it wasn't a looming military crisis of some kind. After all, the kingdom was not yet recovered from the ravages of the Griffin.

Gwen began to feel silly, just standing there like a scarecrow. Evidently, the prince wasn't of a mind to acknowledge her. She supposed she ought to take that as a hint and be gone. But there was just something about his expression. She just couldn't turn around and walk uselessly away without even trying to help.

“Are you alright?” She asked finally, unable to think of a proper greeting for one of his station under such informal circumstances. The prince made no response. If it had been Uther sitting there ignoring her, she wouldn't have dared to speak again. She'd have know for certain that he didn't consider her question, in light of her station, to be worthy of a response. But somehow Arthur's silence felt different. He seemed... lost in himself. So lost that he really might not have noticed someone addressing him from two feet away.

“Are you alright?” Gwen repeated, her voice going a bit high pitched and warbley. Even she could hardly tell if the tightening of her throat and the fluttering in her chest were due more to her worry over the prince's well being and what might be troubling him or to the healthy and natural fear of disturbing a Pendragon who wished not to be disturbed. She refused to even entertain the tough that it might be due to something else entirely. Something related to the prince's godlike form and angelic visage.

In the next moment that third possibility became much easier to deny. Arthur raised his head. The look of exasperation on his face was nearer demonic than angelic, as was the near hiss of frustration that he expelled. A split second later indifference took the place of annoyance. “Oh, it's you,” rolled off of Arthur's usually silver tongue with such a complete show of lack of interest that for a moment Gwen wondered if his tone were carefully contrived to hide his true feelings, whatever those were.

Arthur made another, even more deeply annoyed noise that left his face set in a cruelly interrogative frown. Gwen tried to make polite excused and take her leave, but she felt like a rabbit cause in a snare with the prince glowering at her like... well like something he'd caught in a snare. “I was just...” Gwen stammered, “I saw you come in here, and you seemed... I don't know...” She couldn't seem to make anything sensible come out of her mouth no matter how hard she tried.

“I'm fine,” Arthur snapped, slamming a heavy sword down in its holder. As if he had half a mind to employ it otherwise. Gwen swallowed hard, apologized profoundly for disturbing the prince's peace, and hurried away.

She didn't stop hurrying until she reached the little cottage she shared with her father. There, she found plenty of tasks to keep her hand busy, but her mind kept wandering. Back to Prince Arthur and whatever was disturbing him. Back to the confusing welter of emotions the thought of his suffering caused Gwen to feel.

It seemed almost impossible how quickly the rest of the day passed. Soon Gwen found that the sun was setting. Reluctantly, she rose from her still half finished chores to return to the castle. She was relieved to at least make it to Morgana's chamber without running into Arthur.

Morgana greeted her warmly, but unless Gwen was imagining things, her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. In fact, she looked very tired, emotionally drained. And there were the flowers sitting by her bed. Reminding Gwen that whatever it was exactly that had transpired between Arthur and Morgana in relation to his proposal of marriage remained unresolved.

No wonder he'd snapped at her, Gwen decided. He must have thought Morgana had sent her for some purpose, perhaps to deliver a message in response to the flowers. Assuming he'd even been the one to send them. And there she'd been stammering like an idiot, imparting no word from Morgana at all.

With a small sigh, Gwen laid all that aside and began the task of helping Morgana wash our her hair, lay out her nightclothes and prepare for bed. “Good night,” her lady bid her when all was done and the was tucked snugly under her covers. Gwen recited her part in the nightly exchange of pleasantries. Then she put out the candles, closed the door to Morgana's chambers, and made her lonely, lamp-lit way home.

Her father had left her a supper of bread and cheese spread out on the table. He was already in bed, already snoring. Gwen kissed him gently on the forehead before eating the simple meal he'd provided. Then she spread her blanket on the floor of the tiny back room, wanting to be near him, knowing that he's be gone to his shop long before she rose at the first light of dawn to help Morgana start her day.

The night was not all blissful oblivion. Besides the chronic discomfort of sleeping on the floor, there were the dreams. Tonight the dreams, jumbled as they were,were of worry, disappointment, and sorrow.

_Little Gwen holds tight to her mother's hand... only to have her disappear when she dares to try and catch a glimpse of her unremembered face. Elyan crashes trough the the front door an hour after midnight, drunk as a dog and twice as surly. Gwen shouts spiteful things at him, things she never actually said when he was home making a mess of things._

_And there's her mother again, crying. Her face is hidden in her hands. Is it Elyan who has made her cry? She's holding him on her lap, his little arms so gray and limp. No, not Elyan, another baby. “Don't talk about that,” Tom Whispers, “Can't you see you're making your mother cry.”_

_But when Gwen looks over at the bed to make some answer to her father; there he lies, dead and more than dead. Rotting. Drawing flies. Gwen tries to run to him, to throw her arms around him, sure that he can be revived if only once she can touch him. But she is chained to an anvil, chained by the neck with hardly enough slack to stand never mind crossing the room._

_Elyan stands with his arms folded. “What do you want me to do about it?” he demands boredly. And then he is not Elyan after all. He is Prince Arthur, looking and sounding every bit as drunk and useless. Tom is gone now and Elyan is dying on the bed. Or possibly Morgana._

_Gwen strains at her chains harder than ever, but the iron collar bites into her neck, drawing blood. The anvil begins to glow red-hot. The chain is getting warmer. Arthur says something snide but the exact sense of it is lost. He is sprawled on the bed now, naked as the day he was born. He's getting impatient with her, but the anvil won't let her go to him._

“ _Alright” the Prince says finally, “I'll come to you.” The hot iron collar is burning Gwen's neck now, branding her. “Flithy whore!” The Prince shouts, giving her a sharp backhand across the mouth. “How dare you look at me!” It's Arthur's face, but Uther's voice coming from it. And now her mother's tears are tears of shame...._

Gwen woke in time to see her father off after all. In truth, she'd been up for an hour. Tired of trying to sleep. She was tempted to try and catch an hour in the bed before going to help Morgana dress, but she couldn't risk oversleeping. Instead, she decided to stop by the kitchens and prepare a tray for Morgana's breakfast. She made sure to include plenty of roasted nuts, dried fruit and other savory treats that her mistress enjoyed, just in case she needed a little extra something to cheer her up this morning.


	6. The Physician's Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Merlin

“Come, Merlin!” Gaius's voice is low and urgent, demanding. A lantern-bearing servant. They three all but fly through rooms and corridors, under archways and up flights of stairs. Anyone would think that Cerberus himself were at their heals. But they are not flying from but towards the horror that has just been uncovered in the still more than half slumbering household of the King of Camelot.

The Great King himself suddenly looms in the murky hallway as they reach Morgana's door. “There you are!” Uther says caustically, as though reprimanding them for not arriving sooner though they were shaken awake not five minutes ago. His eyes are firmly fixed on Gaius, but Merlin can't help trembling just the same.

Gwen sits at Morgana's bedside, rising as they enter, just enough to aim a quick bow in Uther's direction. He waives it way. “Sit, girl,” he murmurs impatiently, distractedly. Arthur is not here, has not been awakened. The fates have shown that much mercy to the young sorcerer at least. At least he is not trapped in this warm, close, somber chamber with the both of them at once.

Then Merlin's eyes fall upon Morgana's face, nearly as pale as the lace of her embroidered pillowcase. All thought of 'merciful' fates flees from him. She looks like death itself, if death were a beautiful girl. Has she always been so thin? Her lips so red, like blood?

Immediately, Gaius presses a hand to her chest as no other man in Albion would dare without first asking the king's leave. Then he smooths her hair back and presses his ear to her instead. Morgana sleeps on, breathing in and out, utterly insensible to his touch. Gwen and Uther look on anxiously from the other side of the bed. Merlin stands awkwardly at his master's side feeling useless and out of his depth.

“Her heart has slowed” Gaius confirms, “commiserate with her respiration.” Uther and Gwen continue to look at Gaius expectantly, as though this observation will be at any moment followed by a diagnosis of what ails the Lady and a plan for achieving it's cure. Gaius drops his eyes, and though he seems to be running them purposefully over ever inch of Morgana's limp form, Merlin forms the disturbing impressing that the old man simply wishes to break eye contact with those who expect answers he is not prepared to give.

“Has the possibility of poison been considered?” Gaius asks calmly.

“Poison?” Gwen gasps, shocked. “But, I—she has not risen since—! She can't have eaten since I—!” Gwen's voice is high with terror and confusion. Her eyes dart to Uther's face but don't dare to light on him for more than an instant. The memory of how she learned to fear him so stabs Merlin with a red-hot lance of guilt.

“I checked the covers and all around the bed,” Uther answers Gaius, as though Gwen has not spoken at all, as though the two men are alone at Morgana's bedside. “There is nothing within her reach. No bottles or vials, not even a sleeping draft. No foils or wax papers. No powers or liquids or unusual stains.”

Merlin's eye catches Gwen's almost by accident. They exchange a perplexed look. The implication in Uther's answer make's Gaius's question an altogether different one. As does the fact that neither of them shows the slightest interest in the girl who brought Morgana her supper.

The weight of the air in the apparently shrinking room is suddenly oppressive. Uther and Gaius are not concerned that an enemy has poisoned Morgana, but that she has done it to herself. And though that appears not to be the case, it doesn't change the fact that there is some unspoken secret between them. Something a young woman might be expected to want to die over.

Is it something to do with Arthur? His failed marriage proposal? Merlin hopes not. For all he knows, he had a hand in Uther's decision not to allow the marriage. If only, somehow, he could use his powers to help, Merlin thinks. To help with Morgana's illness and whatever is keeping she and Arthur apart. But the thought goes no further.

In the first place, Merlin suddenly find that it is agony to think of Arthur and Morgana together, however badly he feels about their situation. But more importantly, the idea of using magic on the King's Ward, crosses the line from foolishness to madness. Merlin may be a sorcerer on his own time, but in the Royal Court of Camelot, he is only the Physician's Apprentice. His job is to fetch water, gather herbs, and do as he is told. Given everything he already has to deal with, this is no time to start practicing forbidden arts right under the King's nose.

And yet, there Morgana lies. Helpless. Pale. Sadly Beautiful. And Merlin can't shake the conviction that if he truly has such a great destiny, if he is really to bring magic back to Camelot and to be the loyal protector of a great and powerful king; he ought to be able to do something more for her than to stand here pretending to be helpless.


	7. Still Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Arthur

Today, like yesterday, Arthur stood in the hallway, a little distance from Morgana's door. The two days might have been one. Nothing changed. Not the flagstones beneath his feet that he found himself staring at for hours on end. Not the hushed, grim-faced comings and goings from the Lady's chamber.

And yet, he could hardly bring himself to inquire of her wellbeing, banish the thought of crossing her threshold. Maybe that had something to do with his father, who could barely be persuaded to leave her side even to eat or sleep. It most definitely had to do with Merlin, who ducked past him shame-faced, eyes averted like a guilty convict, on each of his ceaseless missions to fetch water and herbs and whatever else Gaius required for another long, arduous day of standing about scratching his head and making polite, noncommittal noises in reply to the inevitable question that was perpetually on the lips of every noble, peasant, knight, servant, and stable groom in all of Camelot.

Will the Lady Morgana Live?

The air inside the castle suddenly felt hot and stale, and far too heavy to breath. Arthur had to get out, if only for a little while. His feet were already in motion towards the side courtyard as his mind cast about for some outdoor activity with which to divert himself for an hour or two. More by habit than by conscious intention the Prince kept his pace brisk but steady, his step as even as the neutral expression he wore, giving away nothing of his heart to any chance passers by. It was simply what one did, if one was a prince of Camelot.

By the time he was able to breath in a lungful of clean, calming outdoor air, Arthur had discarded the thought of hunting. It was too festive an activity, unseemly at such a time. And despite the tight, hot, heavy knot of anger in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't bear the thought of killing today. Not even a deer. Not even the lowliest rodent. Superstitious though it might have been, he couldn't help but think of the scales of fate perfectly balance between life and death, Morgana's doom undecided. As though a simple act on his part might tip the balance irrevocably against her survival.

A ride then perhaps? Yes, Arthur decided. That was what he needed. A long, vigorous ride through the countryside. No more useless waiting. No more brooding. No more introspection. Nothing but speed and motion. The sting of the cool wind in his face, whipping back his hair, whistling in his ears. Drowning out his thoughts.

Yes. A ride was just the thing. Arthur could practically feel the taunt, muscular horseflesh between his thighs as he took his first decisive step in the direction of the stables. But he had hardly cleared the doorway when one of his knights signaled for his attention. Making sure that his expression was not only bland but relaxed, almost cheerful; Arthur nodded acknowledgment to the worried looking young man.

A group of similarly grave-faced young men seemed to materialize around them as if out of thin air. Arthur could have gnashed his teeth in frustration as their hungry eyes crawled over his flesh in search of news. But Sir. Leon, the one who had signaled him, was eager to impart news of his own. “There is a stranger,” he whispered breathlessly indicating a cloaked figure some little way across the courtyard with a wave of his hand. “He claims to have traveled far and to know many things. He says he can cure her. But the King has given orders to admit no one. Won't you speak to him please?”

Arthur tamped down the little tendrils of hope that threatened to sprout in his breast. What could this stranger possibly know that Gaius did not? Still, he saw no harm in speaking to the man.

At first glance he seemed wrinkled and old, but as Arthur approached nearer, he quickly saw the far more disturbing truth. The stranger's face was withered and lined on the right side only while the left side appeared youthful, almost handsome. This man had been ravaged not by age, but by fire.

Edwin Muirden (for so the stranger introduced himself) had a pleasant, duly deferential manner. But he did not waist time in obsequities. He was forthright, straight to business, as one used to dealing with both adversity and royalty. And cowed by neither. Arthur had half formed the impression that he was (or at least had been) a warrior of some sort, when he offered himself instead as a physician, just as Sir Leon had indicated.

Arthur looked again at the left side of his face. The undamaged skin looked young indeed. Too young. Perhaps no older than Arthur himself. His cloths were those of a pauper with pretensions to more. His cloak, little better than sackcloth with stained bits of gaudy trim clinging to the flayed cuffs of the sleeves. He bore a large, intricate pendent around his neck made from base metal and glass beads.

Inwardly, Arthur cursed himself, and this obvious charlatan for the traitorous spark of hope Muirden had momentarily kindled in his breast. He quickly turned and strode away, throwing a few terse word of dismissal over his shoulder. He was not willing to loose his temper in this company, not willing to make himself a fool so publicly, yet again, so soon.

Muirden, for his part, continued to play his role perfectly. He didn't press the Prince to stay and hear further. He didn't tout himself or bandy about the names of other nobles he claimed to have cured. But his simple parting words stayed with the Prince as he walked on toward the stables. Not only the words, but the calm, assured, politely indifferent way in which he said them. “I'll be at the Inn in case you change your mind.” As if he were simply a respectable craftsman offering his services where they seem to be required.

He didn't sound desperate for money or anything else. It was as though he were not so much begging a commission as imparting information he honestly hoped might be helpful. _I'll be at the Inn in case you change your mind._ And as he rode, as he pealed through the countryside at a hard gallop, resolutely though he tried not to think at all, Arthur could feel his mind changing already.

Suppose Muirden was a charlatan. He hardly seemed a madman. At worst he might prescribe some innocuous remedy that would do Morgana no good and rob Uther of a tiny sum that he could well afford to lose. At best... If there was even the slightest chance that he could rouse her from this deathly sleep, it was a chance too valuable to be ignored.

Uther spoke little of such things, but Arthur was not blind. He could see it in his father's eyes. Uther loved Morgana as if she were his daughter, perhaps more than his own son. Her death would freeze his heart to stone. It would hollow out his very soul. And gods pity the kingdom ruled by such a man.

Already Uther's own physician was too afraid of his wrath to dare suggest healing Morgana by the one art he possessed that has not yet failed. If Muirden could do no more than, by his very failure, convince Gaius that the time for caution had passed and all means at his disposal must be tried, that alone might be worth all the gold in Camelot. For deep in the core of his being, though he had spoken such treason to no one, least of all Gaius, Arthur had formed an abiding suspicion that sorcery might be the only means of saving Morgana's life.


	8. Those Who Burn By Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Uther

Once again day faded into night. As the moon rose over the city, even Gaius at last begged leave to take his rest and bid Uther to do the same. Guinevere, the blacksmith's daughter, what passed for a Lady in Waiting in these parts, feigned as if she would have stayed regardless, that he need not fear the Lady would be left alone. But Uther noticed that at his insistence that he would not under any circumstances leave Morgana's side, she was out the door and gone as quickly as she could beg pardon.

The King smiled thinly to himself as the door closed behind her. The poor ninny had bolted like a frightened rabbit. Perhaps he had stated his point too stridently, causing her to fear that he suspected some danger in leaving Morgana in her hands, some fear that she might practice dark arts to bring about a cure. Fear that Old King Uther the Terrible might condemn her to the flames after all for her mere proximity to this disaster.

Uther stopped smiling. The thought was not so funny. The truth was, if he could only have been absolutely certain that her cure would be the result, and that no life as dear to him would be taken in her place... Shaking himself bodily, Uther forced his mind from that train of thought.

There was no such thing as good or safe sorcery. The price of believing otherwise was always and inevitably too dear. Particularly if Uther himself was the one setting the penalty. No man who believed in an ordered universe could possibly expect than an exception would be made in his case if he wavered from his own strictures now. Not after all the blood he had spilled in holding others to that very point. He'd only be trading one disaster for another.

Putting the thought out of his head as best he could, Uther half rose from his chair at Morgana's bedside and leaned down over her. He placed the back of his hand to her too cool forehead. That was the one thing about her condition that most puzzled him. If his daughter was near death from an infection, why was it that she had not even a trace of fever?

Gaius could make him no reasonable answer. He only kept repeating that the symptoms of any illness varied greatly from patient to patient and from case to case. The interrogator in Uther knew what such an answer meant. It meant that the person being questioned hadn't a clue what to say to keep from being subjected to yet more unpleasantness, never mind any pretensions to knowing the truth of the matter.

Sighing, Uther settled back into his chair for the night, holding Morgana's limp, clammy hand in his. He rested his eyes for a moment. A moment which grew steadily longer. He didn't dream of actually sleeping, but he cultivated a kind of half dozing state in which he might get some rest. Or maybe he only kept his eyes closed to keep from seeing Morgana as she was.

It was so strange. Unsettling. In all the years he'd known her, Uther had never seen Morgana so still, so lifeless. Even as a child, she had always been an active sleeper. One to toss about and mutter to herself in joy or distress as her dreams dictated. She was like her mother in that respect. Uther wished he could say it was their only similarity.

With Vivienne at least, Uther's father, King Constantine, had been in a position to cover her first transgression with a convenient marriage. But then, at the time he had believed her seducer to be his son and heir. Gerlois, for his part, had been so taken with her and so happy to serve his King that to the day he died he had considered himself the beneficiary rather than the grantor of that enormous favor. No bastard had ever made a Lord happier. Unless it was Morgana.

At the time Uther had condemned the act of his so-called brother in leading Vivienne astray, little fearing that he himself would be lead to the same crime by the same too willing victim. Such are a boy's thoughts when he has barely an inkling of a man's desires or of the power over him which they give to women. Or whomever it is, Uther amended grudgingly, that the man desires.

Merlin. Merlin filled his thoughts as he sat there on the edge of sleep. Gawky, stammering, ridiculous Merlin. How could anyone, let alone a gentleman, never mind Uther's only son, possibly desire _that_?

It was like some joke of the fates, one further bit of punishment, just to add insult to injury. This was what came of turning to sorcery, no matter how dire the need. Of course the child born of such arts had to be malformed in some way and to some extent. Perhaps Uther should count himself lucky that his son had only been born a potential Sodomite and not a Dark Wizard like his own bastard 'brother'Ambrosius Aurelianus.

But still... _Merlin_?

As if on cue, Uther was roused from his contemplative half stupor by a nervous little tapping at the door. He opened his eyes. From the depth of the darkness in the room, Uther realized he must have slept a bit after all. The moon was down. It must be nearer dawn than midnight.

Again, that irritating, hesitant, womanly little tapping. Uther drew breath to answer, but before he could speak, the door opened to admit a stubby candle in a battered holder and the large, oddly shaped head of a gangling youth who looked even more laughable with his oh-so-serious frown than with his lopsided, gawking smile. He had the stealthy air about him of one who has entered a room where everyone is asleep and who wishes to keep it that way.

“Good morrow, Merlin,” Uther greeted him with a thin smile.

With a girlish little swallowed shriek, the boy started back so violently that he almost dropped his stubby little candle.


	9. That Awkward Moment When You Realize You Have the Dragon's Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Merlin

“Ahhh!” Merlin something between screamed and squeaked, fumbling to grab hold of his floating candle before it fell from the air at his sudden inability to balance delicate concentration and heart-stopping terror. Damn the doors in this castle! Why did the have to be so heavy, so much easier to open with two hands?

“Your—Your Majesty...” Merlin finally managed, swinging the door a bit wider as he dug deep in his soul for the courage to enter that dark, shrinking room, already so full of Uther's heady presence that he could hardly breath. “I—I, good morrow,” he finally managed thinking better of trying to explain his presence. Then, half apologizing in spite of himself, “I thought you were asleep.”

Uther gave him an odd look. Skeptical, amused, only slightly bored. Like a child watching an ant hill for lack of anything better to do. “Please,” he said at length, pleasantly enough, actually, “Don't let me keep you from your work.”

“From my...? Right, yes. Of course. Just going to, to... check Morgana's heart rate and, and make sure her breathing is not, umm, distressed!” Merlin finished his stammering much too excitedly, too happy at finding the Giaus-like word he was groping for to realized how he sounded until it was a split second too late.

Uther gave him a look that could have frozen molten steal. Merlin clamped his mouth shut. It felt unnaturally dry and sticky at the same time, entirely too full of his tongue.

Uther half raised an eyebrow, as if to ask Merlin whether he hadn't better get on with it. And so he did, rather awkwardly shambling past the king and around the bed to Morgana's other side, making sure to keep his body between Uther's eyes and the lumpy leather satchel that he had brought with him in the hopes of finding Morgana alone or at least finding the king asleep.

When he had managed to set the satchel down at his feet where the bed blocked it and the rather obviously book-shaped bulge in one side from the King's view, Merlin finally managed to calm down a little. For the sake of authenticity, he first held Morgana's wrist between his thumb fingers as he had sometimes seen Gaius do, before finally working up the nerve to put his ear to her chest. The whole time, he kept a watch on the king out of the corner of his eye. The king looked nervous, expectant, but not offended or murderous.

“No change,” Merlin explained solemnly, straightening to his full height, but not quite looking Uther in the eye.

“I could have told you that,” Uther replied, just a bit crossly. “I've been here all night.”

“So you have!” Merlin noted perhaps a bit too brightly, getting an idea. The kind of idea that turns your stomach because the chances of it going horribly, horribly wrong are almost equal to the chance that is will neatly and cleverly solve everything. “As you were the night before. And if I may say so, it is not well that such an important man should go so long without rest. Gaius is very worried for you.”

Silence crackled between them. Terrible silence. Merlin snuck a glance at Uther's face and did not like what he saw. Fire burned in the old king's eyes but the rest of his features were as set and hard as ice. If it was not precisely the look Arthur had given him when he'd come within a hair's breath of cutting his throat just a few (impossibly short) days ago, before they had become... whatever they now were; it was close enough. And on Uther's face it did not look the least bit out of place.

“...Sire.” Merlin added, a moment too late for it to seem like a natural conclusion to his last sentence, hoping the tardy inclusion of the neglected honorific might at least win him a point or two of Uther's esteem. Perhaps enough to raise him to the level of a cobble stone, to which the King was utterly indifferent, as long as it was there to be walked on when he needed it.

Uther sighed deeply, suddenly looking very tired. “Hold your water, errand boy,” the King said, almost gently. “So far as I can remember, I have not yet killed a man for respectfully passing along the advice of my physician. How ever impertinent that advice may be.”

And that was that. The King had decided that the importance of personally keeping watch over Morgana outweighed his own need to rest. His word was law and his decision final. He would not be persuaded to change his mind. Least of all by a serving boy, which was exactly how he still saw Merlin, his new employment not withstanding.

Merlin stayed a while longer trying to decide if it was crazier to try to sneak his bulky satchel of contraband by Uther a second time or to kick it under the bed and pray the gods he wouldn't find it there. He did every little thing he could think of for Morgana. He put the back of his hand to her cool forehead and tried to look as though he were having deep thoughts about the meaning of it's coolness. He put a goblet of water to he lips while Uther held her upright so that she could swallow.

He had to give the King instructions. Nothing detailed, just, 'up a bit more' and the like. This passed without comment. Uther did as Merlin said. He was, after all, the Physician's Apprentice.

When that was done, Merlin started all over, checking her signs of life again. He counted half a dozen fewer heartbeats than before, but still told Uther there was no change. He didn't dare say anything else. He wasn't even sure that he was doing it right.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour or more of sitting in silence on either side of Morgana's all-but-dead body, both preferring to look at her rather than each-other, Uther spoke. “How old are you, boy?” he asked. Merlin was startled. He never in a million years would have expected such a personal question from the King. Especially in a tone at once so polite and familiar that it bordered on being cordial.

Merlin covered his surprise as best he could. “Seventeen next winter,” he replied obligingly, straitening his back and throwing out his chest in his very best imitation of a man. It was March.

Uther smiled, teetering on the verge of laughter for a moment. His eyes twinkled. It looked strangely natural, as though he'd had that smile inside him waiting all this time. It was the first time Merlin had ever seen him smile at something other than his own triumphs or some else's misfortunes.

In that fleeting moment, Merlin caught an eerie glimpse of Arthur hiding deep inside his father's face. It was distorted, like an image reflected in the water at the bottom of a deep well. But it was there.

'Gods, I'm in so much trouble!' Merlin thought. Because that brief distorted glimpse of his beloved only served to make him realize how much he missed Arthur's smile already, along with the rest of him. Their affair would continue, he realized, no matter what they or anyone else tried to do to stop it. Because it had to. It was destiny. Destiny and inescapable animal lust. It was beyond their control. And it was probably going to get at least one of them killed.

But this was no time to worry about the future. This present interrogation was dire enough. If he said the wrong thing, Uther might always decide to dispose of him sooner rather than later.

Merlin braced for the King's next question, but it didn't come. “I think you'd best be getting back to Gaius and give him a full report of... your observations,” Uther said instead, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if carefully choosing each pointedly tactful word of what essentially amounted to an invitation to fuck off.

Nodding vigorously, Merlin used a small, silent spell to carefully nudge his bag as far under the bed as it could go without moving past the center and out towards the other side. “Uhm... cheers... Your Majesty,” Merlin babbled as he slunk past the king and back out the door with a slumping half-shrug of a bow.

Before the door swung shut behind him, Merlin's feet were galloping across the flagstones of the castle corridor in the direction of the man whose humble servant he would always be, no matter who he managed to get apprenticed or otherwise indentured to. He went to find Arthur.

 


	10. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Arthur

The words were out of Arthur's mouth before he'd had a moment to consider. “Merlin, what the hell are _you_ doing here?” He sounded irritated but he was really just startled, and worried. At the hurt look in Merlin's eyes, he got irritated. How had someone who'd burst in on him—in his private chambers, in the middle of the night, uninvited—any right to make _him_ feel guilty over it?

“I was just...” Merlin started to explain. But Arthur instantly knew that there was no excuse he could make for his being here that wouldn't sound insipid and maddeningly, transparently false. He'd come to see Arthur because he was worried for him. Because of the crisis with Morgana. He'd not been stayed by common courtesy, let alone deference to rank; showing the concern and taking the liberties of a mother with a sick child.

Suddenly, purely on impulse, Arthur pulled Merlin into a tight bear hug. Merlin hugged back though nothing like as fiercely, seeming startled. Arthur squeezed him even tighter, as though he were the last sturdy brace of a crumbling bridge, high above a very deep chasm. The Prince found himself fighting back tears. Successfully, thank the gods.

“Uhm, Arthur?” Merlin choked out dramatically. “A little air perhaps, might...”

“Your such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur declared, just as theatrically. But he backed away just a bit, smiling, his heart genuinely warmed by Merlin's Merlinosity. Merlin smiled his big goofy smile in return, and before any thinking whatsoever could occur, the two young men were in one another's arm again, kissing passionately. The scant few days they'd resisted temptation seemed like months.

This was no good, Arthur realized. He had to put a stop to it for Merlin's sake if not his own. He'd have almost sworn he could hear his cock whimpering at that thought, like a dog who isn't going to be petted after all. But desire, even need, was hardly an excuse to tempt a mere boy to his almost certain death.

“Don't” Merlin pleaded softly when he felt Arthur disengaging. “I'll suck your cock this time,” the youth offered hopefully. Arthur wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. It was just such an unseemly suggestion to hear spoken aloud.

“Alright, then, I won't” Merlin pouted, arms crossed, miffed at Arthur's rejection of his generous offer. Arthur sighed and seated himself in his most comfortable chair in preparation for the long argument that was clearly beginning.

“It isn't only that my father would kill you with his bare hands if he found us... together, like that, again.... Well, actually it is mostly that!” The Prince could feel himself getting hot under the collar as he contemplated the insane risk Merlin had taken in coming to him here. Under Uther's own roof! One bloody corridor over from the King's own chambers!! _Between_ his chambers and Morgana's!!!

“I mean, bloody hell, Merlin! Are you literally trying to get yourself killed?”

“Well, no, of course not,” Merlin stammered. Shocked. Worried. “I didn't think—”

“Exactly right, you didn't!” Arthur snapped, cutting him off in mid sentence. “Did you ever give one thought to what the rest of my life might be like after you'd made me responsible for your death?”

More apologetic stammering, “Arthur, I didn't... I mean...”

“No you didn't,” Arthur repeated, “else you wouldn't have come bursting in here in the middle of the night."

“It's nearly morning,” Merlin corrected him half sullenly. “And despite what you think, I didn't come here in hopes of catching a peak at you in your night shirt.” Merlin cocked his head. “Why are you still dressed anyhow?”

“Not still; already,” Arthur admitted. “I've been of half a mind all night to go and fetch a man from the Inn, a traveler who claims he can cure Morgana; but, well...”

“If you fetch him without Uther's express permission he'll have a raving fit,” Merlin supplied sympathetically.

“Exactly,” Arthur admitted grudgingly, not sure he liked hearing someone of such a low rank talk about his father that way. Feeling disloyal for agreeing.

“You needn't worry, though,” Merlin assured him, sounding anything but certain, beginning to pace as he spoke. “This, all this... It's going to be alright. I know it is. She's going to be absolutely—”

But Arthur couldn't stand hearing the boy parrot Gaius's baseless assurances yet again. “ _Merlin_ ,” he forced out between gritted teeth, suddenly angry at his own helplessness and irritated at Merlin for so thoroughly existing during it.

“What?” the damned fool asked, as if it weren't perfectly obvious. How could a person, even a young person, with the experience and proclivities that Merlin clearly had, manage at the same time to be so, well, innocent?

“You're making me anxious,” Arthur ground out, determined to avoid the shouting that would be involved in explaining more fully.

“But I'm not worried,” Merlin assured him. Innocently.

“Then stop pacing,” the Prince spat out in four crisp bites of one syllable each. At that Merlin sat in the other chair, facing the table. Within seconds, he was drumming his fingers on the wood.

Rather than scream at Merlin, or throw him out a window, Arthur began to pace himself. Merlin watched him for a while, eyes following him from side to side. Like a silent commentary on the worrisomeness of Arthur's having taken up the very activity he'd just been railing against.

“Alright,” Arthur finally said, exasperated. “If we aren't going to spend the rest of the night pacing like a couple of fools, and we aren't going to fetch the man from the Inn, what should we be doing with ourselves?”

Merlin's smile at that was somehow both wicked and innocent. “I can think of one or two things," he admitted. "As long as we're both up anyway.”


	11. The Devil You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Gaius

Gaius sat patiently at table, ignoring the scant remains of his simple breakfast. Ignoring Merlin's untouched plate. He stared fixedly at the door, his eye never straying from it for over an hour. Wanting to know the exact moment that it opened. He need not have bothered. Merlin opened it with such an excruciatingly long, drawn out creaking of the hinges that it might well have alerted Gaius even if he had been fast asleep, as Merlin seemed to expect.

The boy had tiptoed halfway across the room—crouching and squinting as if these precautions would somehow make him impossible to see or hear—before he noticed Gaius sitting there in patient silence. He blinked and started back, almost comically. Genuinely startled.

'Fates preserve him', Gaius prayed silently, half seriously, for it seemed a task too great even for the gods. Either set. Aloud he asked, mock casually, “Getting an early start today, are we, Merlin?”

“What?!” Merlin gasped, shocked as a thief taken in the act. “No! I—wh...” he began to stammer. “Yeah, but see—I … I was working!” he announced at last, in the tone of one who is delighted to have stumbled upon what he believes is a plausible excuse. “I was!” he insisted, evidently feeling challenged by Gaius's silence, as the guilty often do. Gaius had merely to raise an eyebrow to induce further attempts at justification.

“I was just checking on the Lady Morgana,” he explained with a passably straight face. “Checking her heart rate and respiration and her temperature and everything. I thought it would save you getting up so early for once. You know, you've hardly rested at all since this whole thing with Morgana started. It's not healthy and frankly, Gaius, I'm worried for you.”

“ _You_ , worried for _me_!?!” It was this that made Gaius truly angry where he had been only worried and perturbed. This fool child was sneaking out in the wee hours of the night to stick his head in a lion's jaws and he had the impertinence to press a false concern for his master's health and even a false pretension of attending to his master business into the service of that self destructive lie!

“Well I—” Merlin opened his mouth make further excuses, but Gaius cut him off sharp.

“Just don't, Merlin! I am not a fool, so don't make the mistake of taking me for one! And neither, by the way, is Uther Pendragon!”

“Wait! What—?”

“No! No, Merlin. No more lies. Do you think I say these things just to hear myself speak!?! You think I don't know what you're up to, right under Uther's nose?”

“You mean, you knew? That is, you know... what I was doing?” Merlin, may some very patient god bless him, seemed genuinely stunned yet again.

Gaius prayed for patience and strength to no god in particular. “It may surprise you to know,” he explained as patiently as he could manage under the circumstances, “that I was once a young man. In fact, I have a good deal more experience at being a young man than you have. Yes of course I know.”

“But when you were a young man,” Merlin interjected wistfully, “it wasn't illegal.”

For a moment, Gaius himself was taken aback. “Just how old do you think I am, Merlin?” he asked. Then the sudden, horrible truth hit him. They were not talking about the same thing at all. Merlin really hadn't been to see Arthur, or at least he hadn't only been to see Arthur.

He really had been to see Morgana. For the purpose of attempting some sort of magic to cure her. Right under Uther's nose. In his guise as the Physician's Apprentice, acting in Gaius's name.

“What is it, Gaius?” Merlin asked, suddenly, sincerely worried. “Are you alright?” the boy crossed to the table and hovered over him. “You're white as a sheet,” he half whispered. Gaius didn't doubt it. His head was swimming. He put a hand against the table to steady himself, glad that he was already sitting down.

“Did you succeed?” he asked succinctly, managing to keep his voice even and controlled. Not that he was likely to be able to keep that up for long. But he wanted to get as much information as he could out of his almost certainly doomed charge before he gave in to rage and horror, preventing a rational exchange. If he knew exactly what risks Merlin had taken, it was still barely possible that he might be able to protect him.

“No,” Merlin admitted, hanging his head just a bit at last. “The King was still awake, sitting with her, so I really didn't get the chance to try anything. Oh, but!” he added brightening, "I did manage to hide my book and some supplies under the bed, so when he finally has to leave to eat something or whatever, I can just walk in and get going without having to sneak—”

“Merlin!” Gaius found himself suddenly shouting. Then, half whispering into the stunned silence, his voice thin and tight, he asked, “What in the name of Hades is the matter with you? Do _you_ have some disorder of the brain? This isn't a game. People lives are at stake! Our lives are at stake, yours and mine. And Gwen's.”

“And Morgana's!” Merlin retorted defiantly, before blinking in confusion and asking, “Wait, why would Gwen's life be at stake. She didn't do anything.”

“No,” Gaius seethed, “She didn't. Nor did she do anything the last time she was sentenced to die because you failed to clean up after yourself after you last turned your hand to magical healing. Tell me, given that history, her narrow escape, the lack of any real proof of her innocence, what is Uther going to think when he finds that spell book and all of your supplies under the bed of a patient whom she has attended every day of her illness. Especially if that patient suddenly recovers!”

“Yeah but when he sees that Morgana is alive and—”

Gaius got unsteadily to his feet. He wasn't sure what he was going to do until he'd done it. A slap in the face was better than the boy had earned. A box to the ear. Perhaps a jab to the nose even. Instead, Gaius took Merlin's face gently in both hands and looked him square in both eyes.

“I have know Uther Pendragon,” he explained quietly, carefully, “since literally the moment he was born. I was the physician's apprentice in those days. I was the second person to hold him, after the midwife and before his mother. I have known him every moment of his life and loved him almost as if her were my nephew or my cousin or sometimes even as a brother. I have done things for him that I would have done for no other man even if that man had been my king. I have lied for him. I have killed for him. And I would die for him. Because, on the whole, his rule is just and right, and he is the King that Camelot needs.

“I need for you to know all of that and really let it sink in, because you have to understand, that the person who is telling you what I am about to tell you is not an enemy of the king but someone who holds him in highest regard. So heed me when I say that Uther Pendragon is a ruthless, remorseless killer when he believes that justice is on his side, and that is most especially true in the case of magic. Especially given your proximity to his son and the basis of that proximity.

“Believe me when I tell you that the King will sooner cut out your heart than see his son keep company with a sorcerer. Dearly as he loves Morgana, he will see her dead before he will see her healed by magic. And he will not hesitate a moment to consign Gwen to the flames if he even suspects her of defying his commands despite her last brush with death. For me he might hesitate, but regret would not stop him.

“This is the truth of my friend and our king. You've seen enough to know it and yet you trifle with him. You try his patience. Such madness I have yet to see outside of your—” Gaius has to force himself to stop suddenly short of a disastrous revelation. So near the end of his sentence is he that there is no time to artfully cover his stopping. It has snuck up on him in his fear and frustration.

“Outside of my what?” Merlin demanded, his attention sharpening.

“I was going to say, 'outside of your lover's family',” Gaius 'admitted' plausibly, after a scant moment's reflection, sounding suitably ashamed. “But then that seemed such a cruel way of putting it. I'm sorry, Merlin. But I am not wrong. Using magic on Uther's ward is no better for your health than if you had been where I first thought you were.

“The Pendragons, they are not like us Merlin. One way or the other, meddling in their business is worth your life.”


	12. Why Not?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV:Uther

Uther willed Gaius not to speak. He knew what the old man was about to say, or near enough. He could see it written there in the heavy lines of the physician's imperfectly stoic face. And though reason told him that speaking would make the evil spoken of no more real just as silence would make it no less so, still he would not have had it spoken aloud. Yet speak Gaius would, as those of his craft must.

“I cannot preserve her life for much longer.” The words were to the point. Blunt even. “She has hours. Maybe less.” It hurt only a little less than if he had foolishly attempted to soften such a hard truth with gentler words. For a moment, Uther hardly twitched a muscle, not trusting himself to react at all without reacting imprudently. Immodestly.

It hardly mattered. Arthur said what the King was thinking as well as Uther himself could have. “We cannot let her _die_!” And being little more than a boy, it better became him to say it.

“Arthur, please,” Uther chastised him mildly, absently. Out of habit. But Arthur did not take even this without offense. Of a sudden, Uther found that he was sitting, his son standing over him, the whole world seeming just a bit vaguer and more distant than it should have been, just a bit beyond his grasp.

“There's a man,” Arthur burst forth, as if in contradiction to his father's perfunctory scolding. “He came to the castle yesterday. He claims he can cure her.” Clearly this was information the Prince had intended to keep to himself, knowing no doubt how Uther would respond.

And so the King did. Again with little conviction, as if by habit. Going through the motions of being Uther Pendragon like an player rehearsing his lines, trying to fathom an unfamiliar role. “That's ridiculous. He doesn't know what's wrong with her.”

To this too, of course, Arthur had an answer. An answer any father would want to hear if only he could dare to believe it. “He says he has a remedy to cure all ills.”

This time, thankfully, it was Gaius who answered him, saving Uther the trouble of having to argue the futility of his dearest desire. “Impossible,” the physician declared, with all of the quietly affronted dignity of a tradesman defending his craft from the quackeries of the uninitiated. From charlatans and sorcerers alike.

And again, Arthur saved Uther the trouble of responding. Almost as if the two of them were mere figments. As if the argument were taking place inside the King's head. “For Morgana's sake surely we should at least hear him out. I mean, what have we go to lose?”

There was a moment's pause and then Arthur, his son Arthur, who was no figment but a person of flesh and blood looking to him for an answer, demanded of him directly, “Please, Father.”

Uther tried to formulate a reply but no longer knew which side of the argument to support. He wanted what Arthur had said about this man to be true. Of course he did. And yet... “Probably some charlatan hoping for a quick shilling.” It was as if Gaius were speaking his lines for him, saying what a rational king might be presumed to think.

And yet again... “I don't care! If she's about to die what harm can it do? Give him his shilling! If there's one chance in a million he can save her, then why not?”

The arrow found it's target. At last, Uther was roused from his paralyzing trance of indecision. _Why not?_ Why not, indeed. What reason could he possibly weigh against even the slightest chance of reviving Morgana without resort to magic and find it anything but weightless in the balance? Even Gaius has formed an expression of ambivalent, half acknowledgment, conceding the point if not the argument.

“Send for him,” Uther ordered. His voice quiet but steady. Arthur was gone in a instant, without another word. Gaius turned away, fussing with the bedclothes and counting Morgana's pulse again. Distracting himself. But he held his peace.

 _Why not?_ Why not, indeed. Uther would not entertain the only possible answer to that question. He would not. He _willed_ himself not to even think it. He could not, he must not think, that the only remedies that could possibly be thought capable of curing _all_ ills were death and magic.


	13. Kindred Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Edwin

Edwin didn't know what he had expected exactly. The King's messenger came and went with a minimum of fuss. No knights or princes pounding on his door. No dramatic pleas or promises. His presence was required at court. That was all.

Kings didn't need to beg, even when they were desperate. They need only swallow enough pride to ask, or still less, to 'require' what they needed. Or so Uther Pendragon still seemed to think. For now.

For now, he could think it. Soon he would learn otherwise. And Edwin would have the honor of instructing him. Soon. Very soon. But not yet.

No one hurried Edwin to the castle, and he did not hurry himself. He walked slowly through the lightening city, watching the sun rise above the hovels that passed for fine house here in the hinterlands, so far from London let alone Paris or Rome.

He tried to savor this day. To bask in his impending triumph, in his long sought for day of vengeance. And yet he felt surprisingly little. Even when he knelt and offered Uther his dubious credentials and utterly false assurances, Edwin noticed no surge of hatred welling up in his heart. Only the vague sense of smug satisfaction one feels at outwitting a fool. How curious.

It was almost too easy. Gaius, that pompous old bastard, seemed to suspect something but hardly seemed to know what to suspect. Even when the old physician wandered near the mark, speculating that he had met his young replacement before, he was easily put off the sent by a few gentle words calculated to have a harsh effect. “I doubt you would forget a face like mine.”

Uther and his son were utterly credulous. The boy, in particular, advocating so readily on Edwin's behalf that he didn't even have to ask for the opportunity to examine the King's beloved ward. It might have been difficult to keep a straight face, if one were prone to laughter. But Edwin was long habituated to bearing both physical pain and the constant, ongoing joke that the fates called 'life' with a pleasant, calm, unreadable expression.

The medical talk was simple. Rudimentary. As one might expect of a physician left to himself in these desolate wilds, on the fringes of the crumbling Empire. Edwin had no difficulty casting doubt on the old man's findings. His medical knowledge, after all, was as real as the papers declaring how he had gotten it were false.

In truth, though he had absolutely every intention of carrying through his revenge, Edwin was finding the process of doing so a bit of a let down. After all he'd done and seen in his still not terribly long life, he found matching wits with the finest minds this pathetic excuse for a city had to offer, frankly, quite boring.

And then, at last, Prince Arthur, the child whose birth had brought about so much death and destruction; said something rather interesting. “You can consider my manservant at your disposal.”

Yes. Interesting. The boy (who reacted quite as unmistakably as if he had been called by name though it was soon explained that he was no servant of Arthur's, but Gaius's apprentice) was definitely interesting.

His eyes, for a start, were a dark, vivid blue. A color they shared with Prince Arthur's own. A color quite uncommon among Briton peasants. In shape as well as color, even more so than the prince's, Merlin's eyes were the eyes of Queen Constance. The eyes of Uther's mother, dead these twenty years. Dead, if rumor could be trusted, by her own hand. A far less violent death than the progenitor of such a monster deserved.

As Edwin worked side by side with the boy, gathering his equipment, sounding him out, he found him more and more intriguing. Edwin's first conjecture, that he was Uther's bastard upon some hapless chambermaid, proved false. It seemed Merlin had not been born into Uther's household nor even in Uther's Kingdom, but in the nearby village of Ealdor. Just across a border which, in those early days of his rein, even Uther dared not cross bearing arms.

Edwin was familiar with Ealdor, though of course, he could not say so in present company. He had spent several months there as a boy. Resting. Healing. Scarring. Learning to nurse his hatred and pain quietly in his heart rather than lashing out at everything and everyone who crossed his path.

Ealdor. Yes. There had been, as he recalled, at least one bastard Pendragon in Ealdor in those days. Or at least, rumors of one. Very strange rumors. Rumors of betrayal, fratricide, usurpation, and Magic.

But whether or not Merlin was related to any such person, it was soon clear that his position in the Pendragon household was more complex than that of a mere servant, in whatever capacity. Nor did it take Edwin long to discern the general nature of the complication. How could it, with the boy waxing so eloquent about the limited nature of science and the unfathomable mysteries of love?

Love. It was written all over his face. Merlin was in love. His denials only served to further confirm it. Eager, hopeful love. Looking to Edwin for encouragement.

So the treatment of the patient concerned him personally then. For a moment Edwin thought that Morgana might be the unattainable object of Merlin's secret affections. But then he thought again of the moment that Arthur had offered his former servant up as an assistant, a 'former' so fresh it had been omitted.

A look had passed between the two youths in that moment. In retrospect, it seemed obvious. Deliciously so. Merlin was in love with Arthur! And that, probably not in vain, or at least not for lack of reciprocal feeling.

Inwardly, Edwin smiled at this little discovery. It seemed he and Merlin had more in common than a thorough acquaintance with the village of Ealdor. And from the way the boy kept looking at him for validation regarding his discourse on science, as if trying to say the acceptable thing rather than what he believed, Edwin was beginning to develop the nagging suspicion that they might yet discover even more commonality between them.  

 


	14. Blood Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Arthur

They were not the same rooms. Morgana had been moved afterward. To chambers nearer Uther's own. Where he could keep a better eye on her.

But here they all were again. The three of them, gathered round her bed. No one spoke of it. No one spoke of anything. They hardly looked at one another.

Three or four times at least Arthur opened his mouth to speak. But anything he could say hardly seemed to matter just now. It was as before. They were all waiting, hoping against hope that pale, still Lady Morgana would open up her eyes and return to the land of the living, her condition both explained and remedied.

Except that this time she had not merely fainted. She did not regain her senses within moments of being carried to her chamber by her doting guardian, her physician and her sweetheart trailing at his heals. And the cause of her insensibility, though far less scandalous, was easily more sinister. Not that Arthur's 'seduction' of Morgana had not been sinister enough, in Uther's eyes at least.

How vividly the Prince remembered the change in his father's expression the moment he understood that Arthur's confession of responsibility and offer to make an honest woman of the King's Ward was not some childish act of gallantry but a genuine attempt to mend the harm that he had truly done. It had been instantaneous, like a candle being snuffed out.

Suddenly, Arthur had known what it was to look death in the face. To be regarded with the same combination of disgust and rage he had previously seen directed only at others. At criminals. Captured enemies. Disloyal knights. Sorcerers. Saxons. Druids. In short, anyone who had dared to cross Uther Pendragon.

The pain of panic squeezing his chest had seemed like enough to kill him, Arthur couldn't help but recall. It was not the dull, heavy, pressing weight of dread that he now felt; but something far more acute, like a giant's hand gripping him around the rib cage so that he could hardly breath.

But that was nothing to the pain or the fear he had felt when his father's hand had shot out like a viper striking and gripped him by the throat, pinning him against the cold stone of the wall, his feet dangling, scrabbling against the wall for purchase, as if anchoring himself would somehow make him less helpless, less at his father's mercy. And that, in turn, was nothing to the pain of the blows that Uther then began to land, haphazardly, all along the right side of Arthur's head with his free left hand.

In retrospect, Arthur knew that the assault could not have gone on for more than a minute or two, but it had felt much longer. He had watched as drops of blood flew from his face and spattered the stone. Slowly. With a significance that bent time under it's weight.

His father had slapped and smacked and swatted him before, of course. As much as any father, he supposed. But he had never drawn blood before. Had never come close to it, never even left a bruise.

The blood on the stone meant something. In that moment, Arthur had not been a son to Uther. He was not being chastened or corrected. He was an enemy being vanquished. In that moment, Arthur had honestly expected to die by his father's hand. He had more than half believed he deserved to.

And yet, he would trade this moment for that one. Gladly. Because at that moment Morgana had been sitting up in bed, wailing, screaming, and threatening to put the King himself to the sword if he would not unhand her beloved at once. That moment, indeed all the worst moments of his life, paled in comparison to the horror of losing Morgana, of watching her die.

“What's taking them so long?” Uther suddenly demanded. Angry. Agitated. Anguished. Afraid? The words could have been Arthur's own. The tone too for that matter. And the emotion behind the tone.

Arthur and Gaius exchanged a look, but there was no answer that either man could make. This time there was no use in shouting. No sides to be on. There was nothing they could do but wait.


	15. At His Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Gwen

There was a back door to the Lady Morgana's chamber, opening directly upon the back stairs. The servants' stairs. To which her trusted maidservant held the key. By which Gwen could travel swiftly from the kitchens, the laundry, and a dozen other centers of needful domestic activities to her Mistress's bedside, day or night.

Gwen felt slightly foolish, slightly disloyal; standing in the tiny alcove behind that door, her ear pressed against a glass tumbler, held against the wood. Until she heard that man, that 'Edwin' say, “Sire, I would be grateful if you could have everyone leave the room. I require peace and privacy.” And worse still, from the King's own lips, without the slightest hesitation, “Certainly.”

Of all the times and situations in which the King could have suddenly developed the ability to trust others to do their jobs without suspecting every single person he met of the worst motives and intentions possible; why now? Why this person? Any fool could see that there was something not right about him, something far worse than any mere physical disfigurement. Something in the eyes and in that little, simpering smile. A sort of cold, predatory amusement at everything and everyone around him.

Gwen had known men like him before. Elyan had brought enough of them into her life. Too many. Cynical young rogues who prided themselves on what they could gain at the expense of others while avoiding the duel unpleasantness of the Kings justice and the application of honest effort. Precisely who this man was or where he came from, Gwen had no way of knowing; but he was no healer. Or if he was it was only for the chance at profit, not for the sake of the art or the patient.

Thank the Lord Jesus Gaius and Merlin were there with him. Otherwise who knew how far he might press his advantage when left alone with the completely helpless Lady Morgana. Such a strikingly beautiful young woman, so far above him in station as to be completely unattainable by any descent means; such a prize would no doubt seem quite tempting to such a man.

Even to think on the possibility was horrifying. And soon it became all the more horrifying for being all the more real. Gwen wasn't sure what was said in between, only that Edwin and Gaius were arguing politely in low but unmistakably hostile voices. But when Uther ended the argument with his sharp, comanding, “Gaius”, it was clear who had won.

Choking on frustration and every other unpleasant emotion imaginable, Gwen listened, ringing her useless hands, as the three men's footsteps tromped out of Morgana'a rooms and closed the door behind them. Leaving Morgana completely alone to be examines by Edwin in any way he saw fit. In complete peace and privacy.

Gwen didn't know how much longer she stood there. Holding her breath. Listening for even the slightest noise that might have told her that Edwin truly was up to no good or that Morgana was in any new distress. She heard nothing, of course. But why would she. Morgana was utterly insensible, incapable either of defending herself or of calling out for help. That was the point. That was the problem.

After something between five minutes and half an hour, Gwen couldn't stand waiting there helplessly any longer. Quietly, she opened the door and crept into the room. Hoping... well, hoping to be proved wrong she supposed. But not wanting to alert Edwin to conceal his dark deeds if she happened to be right.

His back was to her at least, which gave her a moment to watch him, unobserved. He was fully dressed and had not so much as turned down the covers, thank the lord for small favors. But there was something off about his method of examining Morgana.

He wasn't touching her at all, nor was he looking directly at her. Not at her head or any other part. Instead, his eyes were fixed upon his own fingers as they performed a series of small, intricate, sweeping movements several inches above her upturned ear. He had something in his hands, a small cloth and some minute instrument, but neither was in contact with Morgana in any way.

Gwen had never once seen Gaius do any such thing while examining a patient. If anything, it looked more like the work of an old, witch-trained midwife trying to cleanse the area of confinement of evil spirits prior to a birth. And at that thought, a new suspicion began to form in Gwen's mind.

It was a suspicion she could not quite name, not quite pin down. Until, suddenly, Edwin stiffened unpleasantly at the realization that he was not alone with the lady. “Why are you spying on me?” he demanded, turning to face Gwen with the unmistakable hostility of one who has been found out at something and wishes to shift the possibility of blame away from himself.

And suddenly Gwen saw the truth. King Uther Pendragon, the same man who had all but killed her for the supposed crime of magically healing her father, had placed Morgana's life in the hands of a sorcerer!

Gwen was beside herself. Despite knowing of a few instances in which magic had been used for good, she understood perfectly the base motives of greed and hubris which motivated most sorcerers. Her immediate instinct was to protect her mistress from this man and the dangerous arts he practiced.

For a moment, she argued against his transparent ploy to be rid of her by asking for water. But in the face of his thinly veiled threat to place the blame on her shoulders if she dared bring Uther or Gaius back into the room, Gwen's resolve faded. Looking upon Edwin's half melted face, Gwen cloud not put herself once again in danger of perishing by fire. Not even for Morgana. At least, not without knowing for certain that such sacrifice was truly needed to save Morgana's life.

As much as Gwen hated knowing it, the truth was, Morgana was all but dead already. If there were any power on Earth that could save her, short of God's own miraculous intervention or the healing powers of a living saint, it was sorcery. What then if Edwin was a crass man, acting out of a desire for gold and the wicked amusement of getting it from King Uther himself? It mattered not as long as Morgana lived. And if she did not live, only a fool would remain here to shoulder the blame.

So, with misgivings, without haste, Gwen retreated down the back stairs and went to fetch more water as instructed. She was not abandoning Morgana, she tried in vein to convince herself, not leaving her in unsafe hands. Grifter though Edwin might have been, Uther's gold and not Morgana's body seemed to be the object of his desire. And yet, Gwen could not shake the guilty feeling that she was betraying her mistress in the most cowardly fashion, leaving her in the clutches of Edwin Muirden in order to save herself from being served up to Uther as a scapegoat.

But soon enough, the issue of blame disappeared and Gwen was happy to see Edwin take as much credit as he liked, despite his methods and his motives. Because, when she returned with the bucket of water whose only use had been to send her from the room, Morgana was not only alive but sitting up in bed, wide awake. Seeming her former self.

 


	16. Dreams and Portents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Morgana

There is no pain, not at first. But there is an overwhelming sense of unimaginable heat. Enough so that pain ought to be the inevitable result. And yet, just as the fire plunges the world into darkness rather than light; the touch of the flames leaves Morgana numb.

There is a voice. It is a man's voice, but also a child's voice; hissing and spitting venomous incantations in the raspy, forked-tongued language of the Old Ones, of the Old Region. The words, individually, mean nothing to Morgana, and yet their overall meaning is clear.

_As the child is father to the man, the one bringing forth the other, so must the man—the person fully grown—avenge the wrongs of childhood as a son would avenge his father. The boy is singed in the flames; the man seeks the blood of his tormentor. The daughter is plunged into darkness, shrouded in lies, thick as the smoke of the Olympian flame; and how shall the mother be avenged? The son is cast out with the ashes; what price shall the father pay? Though all is done in the dark, dark deeds see the light of day._

When once the voice has had it's say, it goes on speaking none the less. Not the selfsame words, but words to the same purpose, murmuring and hissing without end. The darkness has weight and substance. It is not the mere absence of light, but the palpable, living shadow of doom. An appointment with damnation, destined since before the dawn of time, looming ever nearer.

When the full sense of this has sunk into Morgana's bones, when she is broken, paralyzed by posthumous dread and foreboded regret; then, then the pain begins. A thousand tiny knives slice into her brain. It is a wet, sickly, visceral pain confined to that fleshy, enigmatic organ itself; and yet it feels as though pieces of her soul are being severed with each minuscule cut. As though more than mere life is being taken from her.

Morgana screams but her screams make no sound. It is not that she tries to scream and fails. She can feel the harsh, volcanic plumes of sound ripping and burning her throat as they spew from her. Rather, it is as though she had gone deaf, but only to her own voice. The Serpentine incantations of the Sorcerer continue to buzz around her being like a plague of gnats, saying what they have said before a thousand different way, darkly hinting that much is going unsaid.

Then, blissfully, as quickly as it has come, the pain ceases. Relief pours over Morgana. It flows in her veins, thick and sweet, like honey made entirely of sunlight. It salves her psychic wounds, healing them. Leaving Scars.

She awakes, as from so many dreams, with not so much a memory as a feeling. A sense of having gained forbidden knowledge which she can never quite forget nor yet remember. Of something within reach but beyond her grasp. But as she rises from her inner depths and breaks the surface of consciousness, she hears the voice still.

The voice is familiar, dreadfully so, though the man from whom it issues is a total stranger to her. Who is he? Why is he hear, alone with her in her chambers, speaking in a voice that makes her skin crawl for no reason she can name?

Before rushing off to share the good news, the supposed physician gives her his name, Edwin Muirden, which means nothing to her. Briefly, very briefly, he recounts a history of her illness and how he has come to be the one to cure her. It is an account which she knows of no reason to doubt. Nor to believe.


	17. Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Merlin

“Great news, Your Majesty!” That simple pronouncement snapped everyone in the room to attention, King Uther himself most especially included. Merlin's heart was in his throat with everyone else's, waiting tensely for confirmation or disappointment of his newly resurrected hopes for Morgana's recovery. “You will be glad to hear, it is not an inflammation of the brain,” Edwin pronounced triumphantly. And that was it. He stood there, pleased as a peacock.

At Uther's prompting, Edwin finally explained that Morgana had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, but still said not a word about her present condition or future prognosis. He merely traded blows with Gaius, verbally of course, about who was the better physician, with the most proof for his diagnosis. Worse still, he put Gaius on the defensive, making him the victim of sharp questioning from Uther about his methods, skills, and judgment as a physician.

The worry and uncertainty in Arthur's eyes pained Merlin and made him think of throttling Edwin right on the spot, as if he could choke the real news out of him and thereby put everyone in the room out of their collective misery. There was only one thing anyone wanted to know; was Morgana cured or wasn't she?

Yet oddly, that very thought led Merlin to feel a tiny prick of concern for Edwin as well. If his 'good news' turned out to be no more than self-satisfaction with his alternate diagnosis of the ailment that still threatened to kill Morgana, he would not need Merlin to throttle him. Uther would burn him alive. As some cruel soul had evidently tried to do already. Anyone in that position had Merlin's sympathy.

And well, admittedly, it did seem that Gaius was wrong about the nature of Morgana's illness, but still... was that really the point. Well, yes, obviously, the right diagnosis was the first step. Everyone knew that. But the way Edwin was presenting it didn't feel right. Merlin was starting to get the panicky feeling that Morgana really was still going to die after all, and that Edwin is merely trying to shift the blame. Though, how anyone could think of announcing that nightmare under the name, 'good news', to the terrified and terrifying King Uther, was unfathomable.

Finally, mercifully, Uther cut to the heart of the matter—not why Morgana was ill but whether she could be cured—with the surgical precision of a skilled interrogator. For once, Merlin was glad to see the King use his talents for good rather than evil. But for some reason, his firm tone of voice and heavy, patient stare didn't seem to be working as well as usual.

Edwin would not give up his smug, swaggering, mystery so easily. “See for yourself,” he announced, heading back up the stairs. Merlin expected some sharp retort from Uther, demanding an exact and immediate answer to his all important question. Instead, the two Pendragons fell in line and followed Edwin up the stairs like eager children, expecting a treat but afraid to ask too many questions lest Mother change her mind.

At last, on the way up, on his own terms, Edwin began to give up his secrets. A few of them anyway. Yes, indeed Morgana was awake and likely to make a full recovery. No, there was no time to go into the details of how just now. Uther was so overcome with joy that it didn't even occur to him to question why it was Edwin rather than himself who should get to decide what was important enough to be discussed. Gaius favored Merlin with a raised eyebrow and a troubled frown that said he was noticing much the same thing.

The King seemed on the verge of fainting, struggling to hold back tears, clinging to the railing like a frail old woman. He was so completely, shockingly human that Merlin suddenly found that they were standing shoulder to shoulder and nearly of a height. Which was something like running into a Titan in the market place, buying a loaf of bread or a few ripe apples for a pie; equal parts thrilling, humbling, and disconcerting.

Arthur, in contrast seemed to have grown a foot. His gold hair fairly flew behind him as he took the stairs two at a time, passing up Edwin, Uther and everyone else in his rush to get to Morgana. He looked every inch an Olympian, come to that. Like Apollo rushing to court Diana; or, well, no, that was his sister. Wasn't it? Merlin got all those Roman gods mixed up. There were just too many of them. But whoever Apollo's wife was, that wasn't really the point. The point was, Morgana was going to live. And Arthur ( his beautiful, powerful, dear, irreplaceable Arthur) was in love with her.

 


	18. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Arthur

Arthur's heart pounded as he galloped up the stairs. Twice he nearly slipped and fell on the smooth-worn stones of those ancient steps, but he didn't slow he pace because of it. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He had to be at her side. To hold her. To share with her his joy that she lived.

But as he barreled through her door and all but tumbled across her threshold; Morgana's look of patient, weary displeasure stopped him short, body and soul. “Arthur,” she said, as indifferently as if she were merely acknowledging the presence of some common household object.

That was all the greeting he got, and all he seemed likely the get. Morgana went back to staring pensively at nothing in particular. He'd seen her more excited about having her toenails trimmed. Happier too. “You're alive!” he tried to explain, trying at once to hold on to his exuberance and to share it with her.

But Morgana gave him no encouragement on either count. Her brow furrowed and her frown deepened thoughtfully. “Yes,” she agreed coolly, “I suppose I am.”

“You don't understand,” Arthur persisted, moving closer to her bedside, thinking to take her hand then thinking better of it. “You nearly died. We almost lost you. _I_ almost lost you.”

If possible, Morgan looked sadder and more puzzled still. “Almost,” she said in a voice so blank that Arthur cloud not tell if she was simply agreeing politely or intending some kind of subtle irony. All the gods in the heavens knew that he had already lost her, that they had lost each other, in at least one very important sense, and that more than once.

However she'd meant it, her terse reply made it very clear that Morgana was in no mood to celebrate her miraculous resurrection. Arthur couldn't help the nagging reemergence of his own secret fear that, despite what Gaius had said about there being no poisons or remnants of poisons about her, somehow Morgan had done this to herself in an attempt to end her own life. Many women and some men would have done the same in the face of such disgrace and such loss as the date of her sudden affliction had represented to Morgana.

Her maid servant could have gotten rid of a vial easily enough, and might have thought she was doing her mistress a service, the Prince supposed. Gwen, like most of her class, belonged to the New Religion. And the Christian view of suicide, however bizarre, was well known to everyone. But of course no god, Christian or otherwise, would be fooled by concealing such evidence. Would Gwen really have risked Morgana's life (and presumably, by extension, her soul) just to save her from being further disparaged among the servants?

Regardless, even if Arthur could have found the words to say what he feared, there was no asking her about it now. The door to Morgana's chamber opened once again and Uther hurried in almost as excitedly, if not nearly as boisterously as his son had. Gaius, Merlin, and lastly Edwin followed at the King's heels; but Uther hardly seemed to notice that he and Morgana were not the only people in the room. Or in the world for that matter.

And yet, Arthur noticed, the same did not seem true for Morgana. When Uther all but ran to her side and clasped her hand, shedding unabashed tears of joy; Morgana's eyes darted to Arthur with a weary look of forbearance. An instant later, she turned to face Uther, smiling like the summer sun, the very semblance of joy, love, and gratitude.

“Morgana,” the King fairly babbled, “This is truly a miracle. I thought... I really thought...” Arthur felt strangely uneasy to see his usually stern and implacable father so overcome with emotion. But that was nothing compared to the creeping sensation he felt along his neck and shoulders as he watched that smile flash across Morgana's face for the few seconds she spent looking directly at Uther, then disappear just as suddenly the moment she turned her head.

“Oh, you won't get rid of me that easily,” she muttered in seaming jest. There was nothing in her tone that could be called rough or sharp; and yet there was something heavy in it. Something sad and resigned and utterly at odds with the ostentatious display of happiness that she had just slipped on and off like a mask for Uther's benefit.

Uther, Arthur was startled to realize, noticed no such thing. He had already turned and began speaking with Edwin again, pleased as ever, seeming totally unaware of the hushed, worried conversation that Gaius and Morgana were having about the mysteriousness of Edwin's method of saving her life. “But thank heaven he did,” Morgana concluded, as if pulling the words from Arthur's own thoughts.

From where Arthur stood, her profession of gratitude seemed unconvincing, but again Uther seemed not to notice. Somehow, what should have been a moment of unadulterated joy had become gloomy and complicated. Arthur was finding it a struggle to keep his own smile painted on. Another circumstance which Uther seemed not to notice.

Arthur had the unpleasant feeling that Uther might not be the only one missing something here. The King was, after all, not a man easily fooled or trifled with. In every way, most especially including wisdom, he was twice or more the man his son would ever be. And Gaius, who was at least as wise as Uther, seemed to hold Edwin in some kind of suspicion that Arthur did not begin to understand.

If Morgana or Edwin (either separately or together) had been able to pull the wool over Uther's eyes in some fashion, Arthur thought, perhaps he had best not turn his back on either of them. Then again, Morgana might only be worn out from her illness and putting on a brave face to make Uther happy. And Edwin might only be a young physician eager to make a reputation for having a unique and mysterious gift for his craft.

Arthur had to remind himself not to loose his head in speculation. Morgana lived. That was the important thing. How it had been done and whether or not she was truly grateful were both matters that the ever growing medical staff of Camelot could no doubt address just as well without his interference.

The one thing Morgana truly needed from Arthur, he could not do for her, only and precisely because Uther would not let him. Small wonder then, he supposed, that she could only manage to fake a smile for Uther a few seconds at a time.


	19. Force of Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Merlin

As Merlin hurried down the corridor to Edwin's chambers, he wished he'd come up with a better excuse to give Gaius than going to pick herbs in the Eastern Meadow. Something that would have taken longer and required less physical proof to be believed at the end of it all. But he hadn't, so the best he could do was hurry and then, hopefully, come up with something before he had to face the old man's scrutiny again.

The thing of it was, Merlin wasn't sure why he'd felt the need to make excuses for visiting Edwin's chambers, let alone having to make excuses for his excuses. He wasn't even sure why he was going there, come to that. Morgana was cured, so there was no need helping him with that anymore, not that he'd been any help in the first place. He hadn't even been allowed in the room.

But now that was over Edwin would be leaving in a few days. Bound to be. He'd said as much. To the King even. And that confirmation had surprised Merlin by feeling strangely painful. He couldn't think why.

Well, maybe he could think why, but he wasn't going to. One doomed romance at a time was enough for anyone, thank you very much. Besides which there was this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that the only thing more dangerous than getting involved with a Pendragon might be getting uninvolved with one. Especially if the disinvolvement process was spurred on by a third party.

Not that Merlin was thinking of doing any such thing with Edwin. Because he wasn't, not in the least. He loved Arthur, would love him to his last breath. Which might be any time now, actually; but even if it was a thousand years from now he would.

But Edwin was just so brilliantly amazing! He'd turned down a job offer from Uther Pendragon. Told him no straight to his face and made it look easy. And then he had walked out of the throne room totally and in all ways alive! Not only alive, but still in the kings good graces. Uther had practically begged him not to go. It was so wondrous it was almost frightening. Thrilling, certainly.

And his knowledge, his scientific equipment, his secret formulas; all of it was amazing. Like part of some wild tale of adventure from a far off land, steeped in ancient secrets and mysteries. A place where everything was grander and more momentous than anything in Albion could possibly be. Like Rome, or Egypt, or Byzantium; some place like that. Which made Merlin wonder where Edwin was going when he decided it was time to go. And there was no denying that some significant part of him was at least tempted to try and go with him.

Which was stupid, really. Merlin could practically hear Arthur telling him so, his voice full of casual scorn and almost bored indignation. _Really, Merlin, don't be such and idiot. What would a man like that want with you? He probably has a wife or at least a favorite whore somewhere. And even if he would rather have a boy, why on Earth would you think that that boy would be you? I'm the only one who loves you Merlin. I mean, honestly, who else would even put up with you?_

Yeah, that was exactly what Arthur would say... unless of course he skipped straight on ahead to having his faithless lover publicly drawn and quartered, or drenched in boiling oil, or turn apart by wild animals. Something like that. Merlin shivered. But he also tingled. His was the quiet, heart-pounding excitement of someone who has gotten in over his head and knows it but continues on anyway, feeling the a perverse sense of power in letting the current carry him farther and farther from shore.

By the time Merlin reached Edwin's door, his palms were sweating. But when he knocked on the door with careful casualness and called out Edwin's name (his voice breaking as little as he could manage) there was no answer. His stomach turned and his bowels twisted with a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. So the tide would not take him; it was just another dull day at the sea shore.

For a moment Merlin was tempted to stop his foolishness right then and there, to hurry on along to the East Meadow after all and find the right god to thank later. But before he was conscious of having made a decision, his hand tried the lock and found it open. And of course, all of Edwin's mysterious scientific equipment would be inside. And Merlin reasoned with himself, he was training to be a physician after all. In short, there was no force in the world that could have kept the curious youth from entering that room, lock or no lock.


	20. Easy Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Edwin

Edwin smiled privately to himself to see his chamber door standing open just a crack, just as he'd intended when he'd left it unlocked. The sound of the boy, Merlin, muttering and fumbling within, furtively handling all the equipment; was music to his ears. The rabbit was in the snare now; nothing left to do but skin it and eat it at his leisure. Or keep it as a pet if he preferred. He'd have to think about that.

Merlin was a pretty little fool, whatever else he was, or at least wanted to be. And he certainly seemed harmless enough. Merlin's little bag of tricks (containing one very respectable book and a handful of silly trinkets) had been as easy to find, and to attribute to it's owner, as the callow youth himself was easy to manipulate into trapping himself in Edwin's chambers. And there would be a certain pleasure in poaching from a man who deeply deserved to be robbed of everything he held dear.

Gaius, that old criminal! He should never have turned his hand to investigation. Certainly not considering what he clearly stood to lose if ever once the light of truth did start flickering around in these dim old corridors. Imagine! Pointedly asking questions of your enemy as if for the very purpose of alerting him that he is under suspicion. That fool would never have lived so long at court in Constantinople, never mind Gor or Ginling.

God how Camelot had shrunk in the last twenty-odd years! The idea of ruling it now seemed positively dull. Perhaps; Edwin thought with grim amusement, as he patiently waited for the right moment to 'discover' the intruder in his quarters; when he was done with Pendragon and his doddering minion, he ought to just burn the place to the ground instead. Salt the earth even. Do the world a favor. Even that hardly seemed worth the trouble.

Be that as it may, the right moment had come. Or nearly so. The familiar sound of two well known pieces of wood clomping together just so told Edwin that Merlin had found the conspicuously mysterious box that had been left out for him to find. And that, having seen it's peculiar contents, he had (of course) snapped the lid smartly shut. Which meant that at any moment he would begin trying his best to work out the inscription that now confronted him from it's lid.

Edwin crept from his hiding place to watch the boy more closely in that moment of distraction. That should make the moment of his discovery more dramatic, more of a direct confrontation. Besides, Edwin wanted to see the look on the boy's face when he figured out that he was not the only person in Camelot who could read an incantation.

Edwin even dared to hope that there might be some slight stirring of the insects, a momentary rustle of would-be life that made it clear to Merlin that the words had power, even falling from his poor peasant tongue. It was possible, considering the book that he'd left under Morgana's bed. But only just. Young though he was, Merlin had lived enough years to acquire some magical skill provided he had started young, studied diligently, and been blessed by the gods with some actual talent for the craft. But what was impossible, what beggared belief, was that which actually happened.

It wasn't even a fluent reading let alone commanding or authoritative. The boy quite literally sounded the runes out, stumbling against and tripping over the individual sound that made up the syllables represented by the symbols that Edwin had so carefully etched into the wood. And yet, this did not matter. It was clear he less than half understood what he was saying. This too made no difference. The insects came to life, hissing and rattling as they churned in their little box, continually climbing over one another.

The boy snapped the box shut, seeming only slightly rattled. As if he were only too used to moving objects, forces, and creatures with no more than a casual, halfhearted request; even if this particular instance had been a bit more dramatic that he'd expected. He was not shocked or terrified, only surprised, intrigued, and pleased. As if he had suddenly discovered how easy it was to operate a spindle or just caught the knack of milking a cow.

“Very good,” Edwin managed to say after a stunned heartbeat or two, keeping his voice and expression properly smug, tranquil, and enigmatic if he did say so himself. It was a close thing though. If Edwin had stood staring for another moment before announcing himself, Merlin would have seen him standing their speechless. That would have been far less dramatic and might well have left Edwin seeming (and therefore being) much less in control of this interaction.

As it was, Edwin was pleased to note, he had managed to startle the boy in his turn. Worse than startle. Merlin whirled to face him, knocking over a relatively unimportant vessel in his haste, spilling it's glittering contents over the surface of the table. The terror that filled his eyes in that moment was quickly replaced with guilt for disturbing Edwin's things. But that in it's turn was replace by a general sheepishness and relief as Merlin took in Edwin's reaction, or lack of same.

Quickly, Merlin seemed to realize that neither the spilled vessel nor the intrusion into his chambers was of any great consequence to Edwin. What mattered was their sudden, mutual revelation that they were each in the presence of a fellow sorcerer. The boy made a few halfhearted attempts at denying that fact, presumably out of force of habit, a habit acquired from dwelling in the fearfull shadow of Uther Pendragon.

With Edwin's understated encouragement, Merlin's fear quickly left him. Too quickly really. He would not have lasted any longer in the great courts of the East than his buffoon of a master. He opened himself up too quickly to a man of whom he had not three days acquaintance without seeming to ponder for a second what this strangers motives might be for reaching out to him in friendship. If he was going to keep him as a pet, Edwin decided, he would have to break him of this habit of trusting and sharing so easily.

Though in truth, Edwin supposed, Merlin would really be more a beast of burden than a pet per se. Their was no denying that though his knowledge of and experience with magic were not as extensive as Edwin's own, his gift for the craft was far, far greater. Curiously, Merlin seemed not to understand this fact.

On the contrary, he was quite as impressed by Edwin's casual reversal of the incantation as if it had been a feat on the order of 'curing' Morgana's illness. As if he had no idea how formidable his own natural talents were; no inkling how many years of hard work and study it had taken Edwin to master that particular magical tool. And clearly he hadn't. He'd done it as naturally as falling of a log.

Edwin allowed himself a small, private smile under the guise of cheerful comradery before he set to work reeling Merlin in with his little tale of the insects' entirely positive and helpful role in treating Morgana. The boy swallowed it with no skepticism, no testing or examination what-so-ever. He tumbled right into the phrase 'people like us' letting Edwin make them an us, bind them together without the slightest struggle.

Not a rabbit then, but both an ox and a gull. Such a useful creature and so eager to be used. So ready to hear that life might hold something better for him than cowering and hiding in an odd garret of Uther's castle doing the bidding of House Pendragon.

By the time their brief interview was concluded Edwin had even managed to insinuate into Merlin's head the idea that whatever life held for them might, just possibly, be something held in common. That was more than he had dared to imagine so soon after the clearly fresh separation between Merlin and the young Pendragon. Evidently, this was going to be even easier than he'd thought.


	21. Anything for an Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Gaius

“Anything for an Old Friend,” Geoffrey said, but even in the moment of hearing it, Gaius suddenly doubted it, doubted the wisdom of asking even. Geoffrey said it so sincerely, so calmly. But only because he didn't yet know what 'anything' was to mean in this instance.

Gaius's heart was in his throat as it had not been for a decade or more; and yet he asked, for ask he must. Even to ask such a thing, to request that the Court Historian of Camelot open sealed records in defiance of the king's orders, was a capital crime and a full confession, all in one breath. And so would Geoffrey's answer have been, had he acceded to Gaius's request.

Some friend I am, Gaius thought, to put poor Geoffrey in such a position after all we have done and been for each other over the years. After the thousand times or more we have banded together to save Uther from himself even as he fought to save Camelot from his enemies, both real and imagined. But there was none else in all the land who could help him. And so, Gaius not only asked but persisted even to the point of begging.

Geoffrey held fast. He could hardly be blamed. His own life was at stake, as well as Gaius's. And yet, quietly, guiltily Gaius did blame him a little. For they _were_ old friends. And all that they had done and seen and endured together ought to have been worth more than the dregs of two old men's lives. All the gods in heaven and earth knew that such a price had already been paid, a thousand times over, and more. And what honor had any man who would kill for that for which he would not die?

But they _were_ old men, Gaius reminded himself as he said his terse goodbyes and made his sad, quietly frustrated way back to his rooms. Time could wear down a man. Wear him away like water following over stone. Not only the body became weary with age, but also the intellect, the spirit, and the soul. Life was slipping through their fingers so quickly, both his and Geoffrey's. Perhaps spitting in the face of death was a bit much to ask of a sixty-year-old archivist, no matter the history between them.

Gaius tried to make his peace with it. To go about his evening. To prepare for the coming day. To decide how much if anything it was safe to say to Uther about his suspicions. Or to Merlin for that matter.

If Gaius was right about Edwin, the gods knew the boy was as much in danger of mistaking his enemy for his friend as the King was, and likely with even more dire consequences, to Merlin himself at least. Uther's consequences tended to happen to other people.

People like Merlin. And, Gaius supposed, like Edwin. In other words, people like Gaius. Common men. Peasants. Learned, professional peasants; but peasants none the less.

This was the thing that Merlin would have to learn if he was to remain at court in any capacity. A peasant might very well love his King and a king might even return that love in his way; but when steel met steel, the king was still a king and the peasant was still a peasant.

Such were Gaius's thoughts when he heard the knock at his door that he hadn't even realized he'd been expecting all along. He knew, even before he turned, that he would find Geoffrey standing there. Ready to offer that which he had not been able to bring himself to grant without at least a few hours of sober reflection.

The two old friends dance a bit verbally. Reminding one another of the horrible seriousness of what they are doing. Remembering without words the dark times in which these records had been written. The things they had done in those days. Together and separately. For Uther's benefit if not always at his command. Terrible deeds and worse omissions of which no man could wish to be reminded.

For all their cautious circling, it was a foregone conclusion that Geoffrey will surrender the record book that he was so obviously holding under his cloak. “Trust me, please,” Gaius said knowing both that Geoffrey would trust him to do the right thing and that neither man believed for a moment that his life was safe because of the trust he places in the other.

When the book was in his hands at last, he added, with somber gratitude, “Thank you Old Friend.” Geoffrey said nothing, but Gaius's trained eye read volumes in his continuance as Geoffrey patted him on the shoulder with staid but genuine affection and turned to go.

Plainly, he was all but certain he would soon have cause to regret what he had just done, by none-the-less determined to do what he must. For his friend and for his King. In whose service he had done many a cruel and treacherous thing, justifiable only by the knowledge that if Camelot was in danger, he must do anything necessary to protect her.

Both men were far more loyal to Camelot and Her King than they could ever have been to one another or even to themselves. They'd know each other long enough to know that. They'd both seen the proof of it again and again. Most especially in the course of the Great Purge itself, when each man had had occasion to betray more than one 'old friend' in the service of Uther Pendragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... so... something went wrong when I was editing this chapter and for weeks there were two versions up at the same time without my realizing it. This is the one I went with. Sorry or any confusion.


	22. A Blind Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Merlin

Merlin was not worried. Not at all. Not about Arthur, certainly. Not about Morgana, and least of all about the two of them being in love with each other. It was a good thing really. Could be very wonderful for them both.

And, no doubt, for their dozen or more beautiful, strong, courageous, healthy, rich, noble, perfect, wonderful, children; if only Uther would shift off whatever unfathomable objection he was camped out on. And no doubt he would, in the face of their perfect, wonderful love. Good for them. Good for all of them. Wonderful!

Anyway, that wasn't what had kept Merlin up all night, staring at the window for a hint of dawn's first light. Listening at his chamber door for the tell tale lack of sound which would tell him Gaius had gone to bed and could not catch him leaving and ask him where he intended to go. Which was, of course, to see Arthur. To... he didn't know what. To make sure he was still there or something. Not that he was worried. Not in the least. He'd no right to be.

Arthur and Morgana's love was the truer, the more natural, the saner love. The love that could give life to new generations and strengthen the Kingdom rather than weakening it with secret and lies. Who could be selfish enough to stand in the way of that? Especially someone who supposedly loved Arthur so much.

And so, Merlin wished them well. He truly hoped they'd be happy all their days making dozens and dozens of snide, arrogant, pigheaded, closed minded, retched, murdering little Pendragons with perfect hair and gleaming teeth and eyes made to fall into like pit traps. He hoped their thousands upon thousands of descendants would unite the land of Albion and rule it for a thousand years while he died alone and turned to dust, no one much having a use for him anyhow.

As soon as the first pale, reddish rays of light seeped over the horizon, Merlin went to tell Author exactly that. Well... not _exactly_ that, because he wasn't keen on being killed. But something supportive of their probable union and generally absolving of any contrary obligation that could possibly have arisen on Merlin's account.

Merlin didn't give much thought to what he would tell Gaius if, as he suspected, the old physician was still up researching whatever it was Edwin had made him feel the need to brush up on. Now it was dawn there were any number of plausible places he could say he was going.

It was only after his hastily chosen excuse, “I told Edwin I'd be up at dawn to collect some supplies,” had left his lips that Merlin remembered he had used the same excuse, almost verbatim, the last time he had left in a hurry, at an odd hour, to go stick his nose into thing Gaius would have warned him to stay out of. Still, he had said it now, and whether Gaius actually believed it or only pretended too, there was nothing Merlin could do but to act as though he meant to do exactly what he'd said.

He maintained a calm, unhurried pace until he was through the door and out of Gaius's sight, then made his entirely hurried way straight to Arthurs's chambers. Making sure there was no one in a position to observe, Merlin sneaked a look through the key hole to make sure Arthur was alone. He was, and still in bed, fast asleep.

Merlin felt slightly guilty. It was scandalously intrusive to watch the prince unawares like this. Even for a lover. Especially if he should never have been that in the first place and wasn't even sure he was anymore. Still, Merlin told himself, he was only doing so out of concern for Arthur, not wanting to disturb him or put him in an awkward situation by walking in at the wrong moment.

None-the-less, Merlin gently eased the door open little by little and crept inside. Just sitting and watching him for a while couldn't hurt. If he let the prince go on sleeping, he wasn't disturbing him. Just politely waiting for him to wake so that they could have a much needed conversation. It was just courtesy really. How could that be intrusive?

The prince's muscular chest rose and fell beneath his blankets. His out-blown breath caused a tiny lock of his golden hair to flutter adorably at regular intervals. The plane of his cheek and the curve of his jaw; his features one and all, were a study in perfection. Like a perfect marble statue of the ideal state of man had been brought to life.

His lips though, his lips were no mere theory, no form of perfection. They were a memory, wet and hot and wrapped around his cock, flesh melding with flesh, joining two into one. His hands, too, invisible now beneath the covers; Merlin knew the feel of those hands on his flesh. He shivered with the memory, trying to ignore the way it made his cock harden slightly and beg to be touched by Arthur's hands again.

Merlin began to have doubts about his reason for coming here. Both of his reasons, if he was being honest. How could he have ever thought he was coming here to give Arthur his blessing to pursue another love? As if the prince needed his exmanservant's leave to do anything. As if Merlin could honestly stand the thought that Arthur could truly love another.

There was love between them. Merlin knew that now. Far realer than anything Arthur supposedly felt for Morgana. Whether it was right or wrong, natural on unnatural; their love was real. Passionate. Visceral. Undeniable. Unstoppable. And the only thing more insane than continuing this love affair would be ending it.

Loving Morgana was just a lie the prince had convinced himself of, Merlin decided firmly. He was just trying to be normal, to act like a future king. And if that theory was completely inconsistent with everything Merlin knew about Arthur, with all the evidence of his own senses? Well, there was just no point in thinking about that.

Merlin jumped suddenly to his feet. He needed to get out of there before his cock got any harder or his resolve any softer. He might not know what the future held for Arthur and himself, but he knew the prince would be irritated to say the least if he awoke to find Merlin sitting at his bedside stroking himself as he gazed upon his beauty.

Merlin hurried distractedly to the door, bumping into a table and nearly knocking a lamp to the floor, righting it only by the swift, unthinking use of magic. Cursing himself silently for so easily falling back into the habit.

Hardly thinking to look were he was going for thoughts of where he had just been and the small disaster he had nearly caused, Merlin lumbered out into the corridor and smack into Gwen. Their bodies were pressed together for a brief moment, breast to breast, before she took a step back and he took one to the side.

Embarrassed babbling ensued. Gwen readily accepted the jumble of half-plausible excused Merlin reflexively made for being in Arthur's chambers at this hour. He smiled and nodded uncomfortably as she insisted on making needless apologies for 'running him over', though Merlin was fairly certain she had been standing still when he'd plowed into her.

Merlin was well on his way down the corridor before the thought crossed his mind that for his front to bump into her front, Gwen would have to have been already turned and facing Arthur's door before he'd barreled through it. That was not so strange he supposed. She might have been sent to Arthur's room before the sun was fully risen to check on his welfare on behalf of her mistress. Or she might be filling in to help him with his morning routine since he was short a manservant at the moment. 

Of course, neither of those things explained why she had denied being there to see Arthur without even being asked, or why she had come much earlier than he was know to rise, or why she had hurried down the corridor without looking in on him at all. Still in all, it would be something to do with Morgana. What other reason could Gwen possibly have for going anywhere near Arthur? She didn't even like him, not really. Not that it matter in any way at all.

Merlin was nearly to Edwin's chambers (to confide in him he guessed, or the seek comfort or something) when he realized that he had better not show up there without any supplies, just in case Gaius was there. He ducked into a storage closet, where he found a leather bag and stuffed it with old pillow cases and loose junk. He would just have to commit to his charade and trust Edwin to back him up.

Certainly enough, he found Gaius in Edwin's chambers, the two of them deep in conversation. A conversation that suddenly stopped as he walked through the door. A conversation or an argument. Merlin could feel the tension between them, and Edwin's explanation that Gaius was 'reminiscing' seemed as pretended as his acceptance of the 'supplies' he had in no way asked for. Still, whatever it was between them, Merlin had to work with both of them. It seemed like an excellent time to start minding his own business.


	23. Cold Comfort or Nothing at All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Kilgharrah

I try to ignore the squeak of the gate and the shuffling sound of old man's feet passing hesitantly over rough stone in soft slippers. But he calls to me, calls out his name. As if I need reminding! As if I might have forgotten the stink of his sweaty, ape-like little body in the claws' count of years since he helped to have me shut up in this place.

I come to him. Of course I come. I suppose I may even answer his silly questions. It seems the fastest way to be rid of him.

There he stands. Within reach of my talons. Easily. I could rip him in half, but what of it? Uther will continue his dismal rein of blood and iron just the same. All this fool's death will do is undermine my hope of outliving his master. The only small measure of revenge I am ever likely to have for the murder of all my kind.

The sight of him makes me weary. “How old a man can become and yet change so little.” This is truer than Gaius could possibly know. Humans live for such a short time that they are practically born old, already dying. They haven't the time to change, let alone mature.

“You haven't changed either,” he says with barely suppressed contempt. As if he'd expected me use these years to reflect upon the sin all my kind had committed by existing in contravention to the laws of Uther Pendragon and to repent of being a dragon.

Petulant and childish, like all men, Gaius demands answers as if he were owed them. As if I could owe this traitor and his tyrant master anything. But he asks in the name of the next True King. So I will give him just enough to set him on the right path. The path of my choosing.

If I come out and tell him that Uther must die, and the sooner the better; this will only strengthen his resolve to go on lying, killing, and betraying in the false king's defense. I let him figure it out on his own. I tell him to do nothing. The surest way to move a man to action.

I chide him just a bit with his past sins of inaction. His looks tell me this reminder has drawn blood. He knows what he is, and he knows what he has done. And in this moment, I know that he will never willingly leave Uther to die, no matter the cost to his nobler kinsman.

But he will try. He will try to absent himself from the situation, to escape responsibility as all men long to do. He will try and he will fail to leave Uther, to betray him for Merlin's sake. But perhaps, in doing so, he will accidentally succeed. Uther may be dead at the hands of that young sorcerer Edwin before Gaius has finished wading through his muddle of human feelings to reach the conclusion that he can put no other above his beloved king after all.

To be honest with myself, I doubt it. Merlin is fiercely, idiotically loyal to Gaius and to the young Pendragon. And despite Merlin's infancy and attendant ignorance, already Edwin is no match for him. No, it is unlikely that Uther will meet his end by magic or otherwise anytime soon.

But if he must be saved by magic? If in the process he unwittingly helps Merlin to become a man capable of regaining his proper place at Uther's expense? Well, at least, I suppose, that is, in it's own way, some small measure of vengeance.


	24. Forever Hold Your Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Gaius

“If you have anything to say, say it now, Gaius.” Edwin's words brought Gaius up short, dangerously close as he was to setting off a landslide of dark revelations the extent of which he could neither predict nor control. Inevitably unearthing secrets he has long since sworn to take to his grave. The secrets of those who had trusted him with their lives and the lives of their children. The secrets he had kept on his own initiative, feeling the bonds of duty without being asked. Secrets that struck nearer the roots of Uther's fledgling dynasty that the mere fact of a sorcerer living in his household.

Foul and blackened though the young man's heart had become, the knowledge of good and evil burned out of it by the smoldering embers of vengeance within him; in this at least, Edwin was right. The time to speak was past. Gaius had kept too much from Uther over the years, one secret at a time, to now turn to his King and righteously demand Justice in exchange for Truth.

In certain matters, his Truth was not the same as Uther's and never could be. It would never be true for Gaius that Ambrosius Aurelius was no son of Constantine; that he and his children and grandchildren were all bastards of an evil lineage whose eradication was necessary to the survival of Camelot. And yet for Uther, this Truth was as undeniable as the Truth than magic was simply and universally evil. That Nimueh was never his friend. Or Gaius's. Or Ygraines.

For Gaius, this was a 'truth' than would never cease to be at best an oversimplification and at worst a convenient self delusion. Nor could Gaius ever accept the 'truth' than Morgana, unlike her sister, was genuinely the daughter of Gerlois, her 'dead' child, Arthur's child, as devoid of any propensity to wield magic as she herself was supposed to be.

Gaius had always been a loyal servant to Uther. Blindly, some have said. Past all reason. As if he were a man in love. Yet all the love and loyalty in the world could not blind him to the fact that Uther himself was now the greatest threat to this handful of souls that Gaius had vowed (at least to himself) to keep safe. Especially Merlin who was nearest and most vulnerable of them all. Not to mention nearest the old man's heart. As near as Uther himself.

And in his turn, Gaius could see all too clearly that it was his remaining at court, not Edwin's which put Merlin in immediate danger of death. It was Gaius, not Edwin, who knew enough to condemn the boy on so many different accounts, all of which could be more readily proved by his own testimony, which he did not doubt that Edwin had the power to compel.

It was as the Dragon had said. It was not Merlin but Uther that Gaius would be leaving to his destiny if he let himself be forced out of the King's service now.

It had always seemed a thing he could not do. Not since the old midwife had lain the ruddy, indignantly squalling child in his arms, and he had watched enraptured as the tiny brows knit pensively together and the (as yet undreamt of) future king had wrapped one hand in a tight little fist around the apprentice physician's finger and held fast, claiming what was his.

And yet... “This is difficult for both of us.” Uther insists placatingly. And it was. Just as a caning was difficult for the master was well as the pupil.

The decision had made itself. There was no other open to him. “I thank you for your patronage,” Gaius said stiffly. It was not enough. His next words contained more emotion, and more truth. “It has been an honor and a pleasure to serve your family for all these years.”

Uther looked stung at this. That had not been Gaius's intention. Had it? How could Uther be blamed for loosing faith in him when the facts appeared as they must? How could any man judge the loyalty of a man he was about to leave to die? No. He did not, he could not, wish to hurt Uther. It was merely the price that he must pay for keeping silent.


End file.
